


Plan S For Superhero

by Spirifer



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Negligent parent, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Secret Identity, Verbal Abuse, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2018-12-06 16:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11604039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spirifer/pseuds/Spirifer
Summary: In a world where superheroes crop up every other week, you’re just trying to make it as a student-superhero-vigilante. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a shot at saving the world.





	1. Bombs and beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> It’s a superhero AU that I had to do after I saw Genji’s Sentai skin. It’s such a good skin! I imagine that in this AU, it’s treated more as light armor than his actual body… for now. Tracer’s superhero costume is her T.Racer skin, and McCree has his Mystery Man skin… how does he keep that bandana from falling off and revealing his identity to the world? Wish I knew.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [spirifer-writes.tumblr.com](https://spirifer-writes.tumblr.com/)

It’s a good day to be outside. It’s warm, but cloudy enough so that you’re not baking in the sun while you’re positioned on an old apartment building’s roof. Days like these make you think about going for ice cream, or even just meandering around aimlessly through the city.

Or, you know, fighting crime. That’s an option too.

“They’re coming up two intersections in front of you, Sparrow,” you speak into your communications device, keeping a close eye on the screen in front of you. Two yellow dots representing your targets and a green dot representing Sparrow blip back at you, the green dot picking up speed as Sparrow races to catch up to the targets. You focus on the fourth dot, an orange one following close behind your quarry, “How are you holding up, Tracer?”

 _“Just fine and dandy! I’m not even breaking a sweat,”_ the chipper voice of your friend sounds in your ear. _“Be careful, Sparrow! They’ve probably got explosives.”_

 _“Acknowledged,”_ you can practically see Sparrow dipping his head in his customary brief nod. _“I’m here now.”_

On a separate screen, you pull up the security feed from the deli across the street from where Sparrow, Tracer, and your two targets would meet. You shift, crossing your legs the other way to alleviate the discomfort of having it pressed against the concrete. You wouldn’t choose to set up on the roofs of random buildings if you could avoid doing so, but alas, you had yet to find a more private setting in such a crowded city. “Sparrow, get ready.”

You see him through the deli’s camera, all sleek metal and green highlights, crouched on the roof across the street. His white scarf flutters gently in the breeze, the only movement he permits.

You cycle through a few different security feeds around the intersection. _Any moment now_. You start to tap your foot in anticipation, a nervous habit that causes the screen balanced on your knee to wobble. A flash of movement catches your eye, and you cycle back to the previous security screen. “They’re here!”

Tracer is chasing two men through the streets of the city, one lanky and wild-eyed, and the other much taller, much larger, and wearing a pig mask to boot. “Anyone want some barbeque?” you hear the skinny one screech delightedly, reaching into one of the pouches strapped to his side. “Don’t complain, Roadie! It’s a classic.”

Your heartrate kicks up when you see the round, crudely shaped item he produces. “Grenade!”

 _“I’ve got this!”_ Sparrow shouts, springing into action right as the skinny one tosses the grenade towards Tracer. It’s thrown too high, and with too much force, to be a danger to her but if it keeps on its trajectory, you _know_ it will give the inhabitants of the street a nasty surprise.

Sparrow’s reflexes are fast, however. He snatches the explosive before you can even pinpoint it on your screen and lobs it straight up into the air as hard as he can, twisting his body into the throw even as he falls. The grenade detonates above the buildings, and the explosion causes a few windows to shatter. Sparrow lands hard on the hood of a car, right beside the duo. Your audio input registers the blaring of the car alarm, almost buried by the frantic sounds of civilians evacuating.

“It’s you two again,” the skinny one seems pretty put out by this observation. “Bird boy and orange Sonic.”

“Junkrat,” Sparrow greets him. As an afterthought, he nods at Junkrat’s large companion. “Roadhog. Fancy seeing you around here.”

“Prison is in the other direction, numbskulls,” Tracer calls out, blinking over to the other side of the duo.

“You ever hear of a prison break? Because that’s what happened for the _third_ time this month! Oopsies,” Junkrat yells gleefully even as Roadhog grumbles out, “Shut up.”

“I’m sure we’re all busy people,” Sparrow cuts in, gently curling his fingers to arm himself with his customary shuriken. “We’re all familiar with this song and dance, so let’s get started.”

“Places to go, explosions to see!” Junkrat laughs, reaching into his bags and grabbing a handful of his grenades. “So if you’ll excuse us…”

“Oh no you don’t!” Tracer launches herself at Junkrat, pistols out and firing. Junkrat yelps and flinches behind Roadhog.

Sparrow doesn’t need instruction on what to do; he’s already jumping into action, pushing off against the car to plant himself between Junkrat and Roadhog, forcing Junkrat to abandon his companion or risk gouging his eyes out on Sparrow’s blades. Junkrat lobs a grenade at Sparrow, but he’s quick to deflect it right back into the sky. The explosion shatters a few windows again, causing you to wince. There must be an easier way to do this, and with less collateral damage.

You scan your screens, searching for an empty area to take the fight to. “Sparrow, Tracer, there’s an old warehouse to the east of you. See if you can get them there.”

_“Gotcha!”_

_“Will do.”_

You open up another program on your screen, scanning the area for any police cruisers. Surely, with all the commotion stirring the area like a particularly viscous soup, someone had to check it out? There’s two cruisers sent from a nearby station, but you calculate that there’s at least a good ten minutes before they can arrive, perhaps even slower if they take the same route Tracer had—there is still debris that needed to be cleaned up from Junkrat and Roadhog’s _last_ prison break.

“You guys are going to have to hold them off for maybe ten, fifteen minutes,” you report. “Cruisers were just dispatched.”

 _“That’s no problem for us!”_ Tracer assures you, blinking rapidly around Junkrat and forcing him to stumble backwards. Eastwards. Perfect.

 _“We’ve held them off before, we can do it again,”_ Sparrow agrees, darting in circles around Roadhog with seemingly impossible speed and grace.

“I don’t like taking unnecessary risks,” you drum your fingers impatiently on your leg as you watch the cruisers make their way towards the scene. Too slowly, in your opinion.

Junkrat snarls with fury as Tracer gets close enough to score a kick against his chest, causing him to stumble. “Ooh, if I had my traps…”

You grimace. Thank god he doesn’t. Junkrat’s traps would be debilitating to both Tracer and Sparrow, who relied on their speed and dexterity to keep them out of trouble. “See if you can tie them up. We want to finish this quickly.”

They don’t acknowledge it, but they double their efforts into forcing Junkrat and Roadhog to back off into the warehouse’s parking lot. You can breathe easier now, knowing that they’re out of an enclosed space.

You drop your eyes down to the second screen to track the progress of the police. Getting closer, but still not close enough. A curse rolls off your tongue, and you find yourself tapping your knee in an agitated fashion again.

“You’re looking healthier, Roadhog,” Sparrow says cheekily as he alternates between getting right up in Roadhog’s space and far out of arm’s reach, dodging Roadhog’s wild punches and his attempts to hook Sparrow. “Is it something they put in the water over there?”

“Stop talking,” Roadhog rasps out. “You’re almost as annoying as Junkrat.”

“Oi! I heard that, Roadie.”

“Good. You were supposed to.”

Looking away again, you check the progress of the police. Their progress has slowed to a crawl—they’ve reached the debris blockade made by Junkrat trying to get Tracer off their tails. This time, your curse is much louder.

 _“What’s that, luv?”_ Tracer asks, a tinge of concern creeping into her voice. You hadn’t realized you’d been broadcasting.

“Nothing important, Tracer. Behind you!” you snap out, as soon as you can focus on the grainy warehouse camera footage. Startled, Tracer blinks out of the way just as Junkrat chucks a handful of grenades at her. They patter on the ground, making a light, cheery pinging noise as they bounce and roll around.

Sparrow lets out a wordless exclamation of surprise when his evasive maneuvers take him too close to a grenade. He throws himself into a roll to the side, just as the grenade detonates and sends up a spray of dirt and smoke.

“Oops! Looks like I dropped something,” Junkrat laughs before he’s dragged back into a fight by Tracer hounding his heels.

“You should really clean up after your—” Sparrow’s sentence is cut off into a garbled noise of surprise as he’s dragged into the ground.

“Finally,” Roadhog huffs, tugging at the chain of the hook embedded in Sparrow’s side. “Now if only Junkrat would shut up this easily.”

“Sparrow!” you shout, clutching your equipment in a death grip. Without his gun, Roadhog won’t likely do lasting damage (you hope and pray). However, from your point of view, you can’t see how deep that hook is sunk in Sparrow’s side.

Sparrow’s hand scrabbles behind him, trying to find purchase in the concrete, while the other grasps futilely at the chain connected to the hook. Tracer springs at Roadhog, pelting him with shots from her light pistols. The large man just grunts, swinging his massive arm to the side and dragging the chain along with him. Tracer is forced to jump away or risk being knocked off balance by Sparrow, who is unceremoniously dragged along the ground.

By now, you’ve stood up and started pacing the roof you were situated on, a stream of curses rolling over your tongue. The police could not arrive any faster if they were flown in on a supersonic plane.

“Is that all you’ve got? And here I was expecting something like a challenge,” Sparrow taunts Roadhog, and you wince. His tone is nonchalant, but you can hear how he’s speaking through his teeth in a grimace.

Roadhog doesn’t respond and tugs Sparrow harshly towards himself, ignoring Sparrow’s attempt to dig his arms and legs into the ground to get away. “Enough. This ends—”

A sharp crack and a bright light bursts out as something connects with Roadhog’s skull. Caught by surprise, Roadhog drops his hook and chain.

“Hey darlin’,” a familiar voice drawls out, and you practically go boneless with relief. “Am I late to the party?”

“Deadeye,” you breathe out. “Just in time.”

He tips his hat at the nearest security camera and gives what you assume is a wink (it’s hard to tell from the quality). _“My apologies. Had some pressing matters to take care of first.”_

“You’re here now!” Tracer exclaims. “And boy, aren’t we glad to see you.”

Deadeye’s arrival really helped turn the tide of the fight. Sparrow manages to dart away and tear the hook out of his side—admirably, with barely a wince. Tracer dodges the last of Junkrat’s explosives successfully and gets close enough to slap a pair of handcuffs around his wrists; Junkrat curses with enough creative expletives to make a sailor blush like a nun at a strip club. Roadhog is caught soon after that, with Deadeye using another flashbang to prevent him from escaping.

Tracer finishes tying the two fugitives to the warehouse’s dilapidated fence. “Crime doesn’t pay,” she sternly lectures Junkrat and Roadhog.

“Aw, piss off,” Junkrat grumbles.

You spot the police cars pull around the corner, lights flashing. “Good work everyone,” you praise them. “Now clear out before you get caught and interrogated too.”

Sparrow is already scaling the nearest building and bounding across the roofs towards your location as soon as you finish saying “good work”. Tracer uses her abilities to blink away from the scene, leaving Deadeye to complain and grumble about “fancy cybernetics” as he escapes via the old fashion way—on foot.

You make sure that even Deadeye has cleared out of the area before you start to pack up your equipment—shutting down the machines, initiating lockdown protocols, and separating the parts. You leave only your communications device active, in case your teammates need you for anything. As it is, Tracer and Deadeye are talking to each other over the comms, Tracer giving him a play-by-play right up to the moment Deadeye had arrived on scene. You let their chatter wash over you as you start slipping your equipment back into their cases; a small smile plays over your lips, underneath your mask, as you finally let yourself relax and privately congratulate yourself on another accomplished “mission”.

“You did great out there,” a voice, tinged with the mechanical timbres of a built-in vocoder, breaks you out of your thoughts and the practically automated routine of winding down. “We really could not accomplish half the things we do without your support.”

“You flatter me, Sparrow,” you glance up to where he’s leaning casually against the stairwell entrance. You imagine that the way he tilts his head to the side is out of amusement. You’re the first to break the gaze shared between the two of you—not because it’s intimidating to look into a completely reflective visor and not know if there’s even a face under it—because moments like these carry a sort of tension between the two of you. It hovers between the two of you, and you don’t want to think about it or what it implies. “It could have gone better. You’re injured.”

Sparrow drops his casual stance to walk over to you. He lifts his arms and lets you inspect his midsection. There’s a tear in his armor, a jagged gash left from the hook, but you can’t see any visible signs of blood or fluid or whatever it is that keeps Omnics running. “I look more injured than I actually am. The only major setback will be the effort I need to expend for repairs.”

“If you’re certain about that. I suppose you’d know more about your equipment than I could ever hope to,” you concede, putting away the last of your scanners and shutting the case gently. You tap the locking mechanism, and the case locks itself with a reassuring beep.

“You sound like you could use some convincing,” Sparrow holds his hands out to you. “Here, let me carry some of that for you.”

“Sparrow…”

“I am built sturdier than I look,” he insists.

You take a step backwards and give a gentle shake of your head, “I don’t want you to aggravate your injuries.”

He follows you, hand still outstretched, “I insist. While we’re down, or waiting, you’re always out here alone covering us on all sides. It’s a thankless job.”

You crack a smile that he can’t see under your mask, a light heat buzzing gently under your skin when you detect the persistent sincerity in his voice. You’re rather glad that you had gone for a visor that was more reflective than a see-through visor like Tracer’s helmet. Good choice, past you. “Well at least you recognize what a stressful role I play,” you lightly tease. “No thanks to your ability to ignore instructions.”

“I can’t help it,” he protests lightly, but at least he has the grace to sound apologetic. “Sometimes there are things that have to be done. I can’t ignore that.”

You let out a sigh that’s not as weary as it could be: you’re in a good mood today. “I don’t like it when we take unnecessary risks, Sparrow. It only takes a moment for us to stumble and for something catastrophic to happen.”

“I know,” he says solemnly. “But when it comes down to stopping someone like Roadhog or Junkrat, if I’m the only one I know in the vicinity who can do it, I’ll be there to stop them. You can bet on it.”

“I have no doubts about that,” you say in a neutral tone, working on rolling up your various wires and strapping them into the secret compartments you had painstakingly sewn into your getup. Your grip is a little tighter than it needs to be, more than you admit to yourself. “But if you were to get seriously injured? What then? Who will we turn to for help?”

“C’mon, don’t think like that. You’ll always have Tracer and Deadeye,” he’s trying to keep his tone light, and you’re not sure if you appreciate the effort or not. “Guys like me come and go quickly in your life.”

“Is that an innuendo, Sparrow?”

You don’t need to see his face to know he’s smirking (or doing the Omnic equivalent of it). “It is if you want it to be.” He ducks down to pick up the case leaning against your leg, hefting it easily with one arm.

“Put that down. You’re going to end up straining yourself,” you swat his arm lightly. That case is heavy. You got straps installed on that thing because it was easier to carry on your back than to haul it around clunking in your arms. “Show-off.”

Sparrow doesn’t budge.

You huff, “Okay, okay. You want to be useful, I’ll let you be useful. I’ve got a bag of trash around here you can help me throw out. And I’ll carry that one, thank you very much. Give me my baby.”

Sparrow relents finally and helps you strap the sturdy case over your back. You direct his attention to the plastic bag off to the side, weighed down by a stray brick you found to keep it from flying away. He scoops it up, the tell-tale crinkle of a chip bag crumpling in his grip. “Snacks? Enjoyed your stake-out, I see, while we were down below doing the grunt work,” he tsks at you lightly.

“Hey, worrying over you three is a hungry business.”

“I heard something about snacks?” the door to the stairwell opens and Tracer and Deadeye step onto the roof. “If you’ve got some, do share. I think I spent the most energy today trying to evade people in that stairwell. Had some really close calls.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way up,” you say. “If you just called me, we would have gladly gone down to meet you.”

“It ain’t any problem.” Deadeye and Tracer both sling an arm around your shoulders. “All that evading keeps us on our toes.”

“We wanted to tell you that you did great out here,” Tracer squeezes your arm. “Thanks for having our back.”

“That’s just what I do,” you protest lightly, but you feel pleased. Basking in the warmth of late afternoon sunlight and surrounded by friends you had a mutual understanding with, you feel a sense of peace buoying you upwards. As you pat Tracer and Deadeye on the back and praise their work—Tracer beaming and Deadeye self-assured and confident—you think that perhaps this moment could last forever.


	2. Home and Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene where R’s father verbally abuses them and there are mentions of his alcoholism. Call me tonal whiplash...
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented, bookmarked, and gave kudos! You keep me motivated and I hope you enjoy this chapter despite the complete tone change.

You split up from the group at a predetermined intersection and go your separate ways. There’s an unspoken agreement between the four of you: despite how long you’ve known each other, no one is going to reveal their identities to each other. Well, except between you and Tracer—Lena. You’ve known each other before you started moonlighting as part of a superhero group, and you couldn’t forget the little force of nature even if you tried. (You hope she says the same of you.)

The sky is the colour of a darkened bruise when you get back to your apartment and slip quietly through the window into your room with the ease of many nights of practice. All the lights are off in the apartment, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that no one is home. You gently nudge your door closed and lock it, in preparation of removing your equipment. The door closes almost silently, your careful maintenance and care of its hinges helping to keep your movements quiet.

You slide your case of equipment underneath your bed. Next, you begin to stash away your cables—after you’ve retrieved them from their various stashes in your outfit and wrapped them all together. You drape an old blanket over the case, carefully tugging the piece of cloth into place so that it hides every side of the case. Your outfit itself is the last to go, folded neatly and stashed away in your drawer below all your civilian clothes.

After you changed into something looser and more comfortable, you finally venture out of your room. You check the other bedroom first for signs of your father. Nothing. The bed is unmade, but when you hover your hand over the sheets, there’s no hint of heat. Likely he left it that way when he left this morning.

You move on to the kitchen and living room. Except for an unwashed mug with the sticky remains of coffee congealing at the bottom, there’s no sign of his presence. You slip the mug into the sink, after filling it with a dollop of dish soap and tap water.

As part of your routine, you start flipping open various cupboards to check your food supply. Your "secret" emergency stash of cookies is getting low, despite you not having touched them in at least a week. You sigh in aggravation, making a note to remind yourself to buy some more the next time you have the time to go to a grocery store. You would hide your snacks in your room if you weren't certain that your father would rather expend effort on breaking into your room instead of making his own damn food. And you really didn't want him rifling around through your stuff.

Next, you check the fridge to see what else you're missing. You're low on vegetables (you're always low on vegetables), the carton of milk is empty but no one has thrown it out yet, and there are containers of leftovers of dubious viability. You take inventory of the Tupperware containers and decide that you have enough to make a decent dish of fried rice.

Lastly, you check underneath the sink. Behind the bottles of canola oil and olive oil, hidden by miscellaneous cleaning products, you see the bottles of scotch. They’re still untouched. Good.

There’s enough rice and miscellaneous food items to make just two servings, and when you cook the remaining vegetables with some garlic, well, that’s more than enough. You scoop out your portion of dinner and leave the larger portion covered in the microwave for your father. You scribble a note reminding him dinner’s in the microwave and put it on the table for him to read whenever he gets home.

You pull out the Tupperware of cake you’ve been saving—a snack and a reward for a job well done today. (And if today hadn’t gone well, then hey, it would have been a consolation prize. It’s good to be prepared for contingencies.) Settling yourself down in the living room, you flip the TV on to the evening news channel and turn the volume down until it becomes a muted chatter in the background of your mind. You open up your laptop and get ready to settle down to put a significant dent into the twenty-page report due in two weeks.

Periodically, you look up from your academically induced stupor to check on the news stories. Car crash on a highway. Lucio concert coming in a few months. New superheroes dubbed Mercy and Pharah, for their work in aerial patrol and evacuation—plus there’s a visible Eye of Horus insignia on Pharah’s shoulder. “An exotic new face on the superhero scene,” the news reporter says, beaming in a practiced way at the camera.

You can barely contain your snort. They’d called Sparrow that, too, back when you were all still new to this. He had laughed at that, a resonant and infectious full-body laugh. “Exotic,” he’d say. “Like I’m some sort of fruit.”

It’s that time of the night for the segment you can’t help but at least half pay attention to. “It’s eight o’clock, and you all know what that means! It’s time for Plan S, the Supers Discussion Panel,” the announcer declares, the news station’s logo flashing on-screen. “I’m Tim Rollins, and today I have with me Dr. Jennifer Alder. And today we’ll be discussing the freshest faces on the scene. So tell me Dr. Alder…”

You return to your report as Dr. Alder and Tim Rollins discuss the newest duo’s apparent dynamic and speculate the extent of their powers. “Well Dr. Alder, seeing as you’re the expert in the field of superhuman genetics, what are your thoughts on our newest supers? Does it look innate or independently developed?”

“It is hard to say at this point, Tim, as it’s unclear if Mercy and Pharah’s costume extensions are merely cosmetic or contain more functional aspects, but I am willing to wager that Pharah’s abilities are more developed whereas Mercy’s are inherent. Both of them being aerial, it’s easier to compare that way, as you can guess at Mercy’s inherent powers through her superior utilization of her equipment and abilities in a much more fluid, organic manner. That kind of skill isn’t easily learned, Tim.”

You’re typing up your report with perhaps a little _too_ much force, and you’re not aware that you’re angrily biting the inside of your cheek until there’s a sudden stinging sensation and the taste of copper. You swipe your tongue over the irritated flesh, but the dull twinge of pain only adds to your annoyance.

“Superior utilization of her equipment”? They don’t even _have_ the same kind of equipment! Just because the two of them had aerial abilities! Other than that, how could they _compare_?

You take a deep, steadying breath to quell the rising blush of anger in your cheeks. Who are _they_ to decide? Who are they to determine whether or not inherent powers are superior to developed ones?

“With the addition of our two newest supers, that brings the count up to forty-six! Officially, we now have the second highest supers population in the country,” Tim Rollins tells the screen.

Forty-six. That was quite something. It was like this city was a giant beacon for outliers.

 _“Guys like me come and go quickly in your life.”_ Sparrow’s offhand comment rises unbidden to the forefront of your mind. Is this what he meant? The absurd number of supers gathered in this city—and counting?

You frown as you consider it. You don’t like Sparrow’s implication, whether joking or not, that he’s so easily replaceable. Something in your chest twists painfully at the thought of Sparrow no longer being a part of your… team? Friend group? After school crime fighting extravaganza? It just wouldn’t be the same.

“A familiar group of supers stopped two armed fugitives today,” Tim Rollins’ voice draws you out of your thoughts. There’s security camera footage of the fight between Roadhog, Junkrat, Tracer, Sparrow, and Deadeye. You remember watching this through your screen, being overwhelmed with relief at Deadeye’s appearance. “Tracer, Sparrow, and Deadeye were confirmed by police; however, they were not available to be interviewed or interrogated. Their elusive and unconfirmed fourth member, Reader, was nowhere to be found.”

“You just don’t know where to look,” you inform the TV screen. They know the least about you, and you want to keep it that way.

The sharp rattle of a key in the lock makes you scramble to shut off the TV out of habit. You quickly glance at the clock on your laptop’s screen: 9:38 PM. You were expecting him home an hour ago.

He doesn’t acknowledge you when he steps through the door, expression absolutely thunderous. You direct your gaze back down to your laptop and begin to work on your report, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

Your father goes to his bathroom to refresh himself while you struggle to think of what to say to him. Should you try for nonchalant, pretend that his mood doesn’t perturb you? Should you go for levity, to try and lighten the atmosphere? Or should you go for solemn, and try to ignore his presence?

He comes out of the bathroom, changed out of his work clothes and into the ratty old t-shirt and shorts he prefers. He spots you staring blankly at your screen and scowls at you, “What, no warm welcome for your old man?”

You murmur a quiet welcome back, but he doesn’t look appeased at all. He starts to flip through the kitchen, likely looking for his bottles of scotch. “Did something happen at work?” your only answer is the angry slam of a cupboard. You ask, quieter, not certain if you want an answer, “Did you go out drinking again?”

“None of your damn business,” he growls at you. “I don’t ask you what you do, and you don’t ask me what I do.”

You avert your eyes again as he swears and slams another cupboard closed. “You should probably eat first.”

He ignores you, choosing instead to turn the kitchen inside out, looking for the alcohol you stashed away. A frustrated howl is ripped from his throat and he demands from you, “Where the fuck is it?!”

Your typing, slow and measured, stutters imperceptibly. “Hmm?”

He sticks his head out of the kitchen and squints at you, “You know damn well what I’m talking about, you little shit.”

You’ve stopped typing by now, clenching your hand into fists to try and alleviate the coldness slowly permeating your fingertips. Your heartbeat stutters loudly in your ears for what feels like an eternity before you finally relent. “Under the sink.”

He grumbles out something you don’t catch, but you don’t want to know what he said anyways. You hear the sink cupboard being opened, and the sound of him pushing aside all the other bottles. For a long time, you’re frozen in place, your only movement is the clenching and unclenching of your cold, cold hands. It’s only until a drinking glass is set down on the kitchen counter, clinking gently in the silence of the apartment, that you make your decision.

You snap your laptop closed, not even bothering to save your work. You rise from your seat and hurry to your room, where your backpack is stowed, in what you hope is both the fastest and quietest footwork you’ve managed to accomplish so far. You make it to your room without incident, but as you’re leaving and locking your room’s door, your father hears the noise and comes out to investigate.

“And where the hell are you going?” he asks you. The glass he’s holding in his hand is already half-full of deep amber.

“To Morrison’s,” you say as you brush by, flattening yourself to the wall to get by him. You stuff your laptop into your bag, only giving minimum effort to make sure you don’t accidentally drop it or scratch it. You’ve gone from cold to itching all over with the need to just _leave_. On an impulse, you grab the container of cake you haven’t yet finished and shove it into your bag as well.

“Oh, so now you’re running away?” he shouts after you. You keep your eyes focused ahead of you, your face schooled into a neutral expression. “What, can’t stand your father like this? You think me _disgusting_ , you coward. Things you can’t fix, you think you can just run away from them. Like your whiny bitch of a mother, you think that _you’re_ the victim when you won’t even help out when your family needs you the most. After all I do for you, this is how you treat me? By abandoning me alone in my own house? What did I ever do to get saddled with an ingrate smartass like you?”

You lace up your shoes and marvel at the way your hands remain steady.

“Go on, run away. Run away to Mr. Morrison, you little piece of shit,” he snarls with venom.

You straighten up, hand resting on the doorknob as if it were your lifeline, and you look your father in the eye. You meet the anger and vitriol in his wild gaze with your most guarded, neutral look. “Food is in the microwave. You should eat.”

And then you’re turning away, opening the door, and escaping into the cool air of the hallway outside. Sure, it feels like you’re running away, like some part of you and your father is slipping away every time you close the door but… you really can’t stay. He’s insufferable when he drinks, and you don’t want to be holed up in your room, listening to him curse and howl all night.

Your destination isn’t far. It is quite literally two doors down from the hall. When you tap against the door gently, you find that it’s already unlocked. You enter into the house of your long-time neighbour, Jack Morrison, after a split second of hesitating.

Morrison is sitting in his recliner, a stack of papers settled in front of him and one of his many red pens tucked behind his ear as he sips from the “#1 Teacher” mug you got him as a joke for last Christmas. He sets the mug down on the coffee table when you slink through the door. “I heard him shouting,” he says as both a greeting and an explanation.

“Thanks.” Your throat is a bit dry, and it comes out a bit scratchier than you intended. He nods at the couch next to the recliner, and you drop into your familiar seat. (You’re mildly surprised that the couch cushions haven’t formed a permanent indent due to you parking yourself there so often.) You set out your laptop on the coffee table as Morrison picks up his pen and starts grading his papers again. The Tupperware of cake clinks inside your backpack when you set it down, reminding you of your hasty retreat from your apartment.

You open the container and set it down in front of Morrison, as much an offering as it is an apology for using his house as an escape. “Cake?”

“You don’t need to keep getting me stuff,” Morrison slides the container back to you. “It’s yours. You should eat it first. I’ll get us some forks.”

He gets up and shuffles to the kitchen, and you retreat briefly to your school report. In all the commotion since your father came home, you’ve lost your train of thought. Your notes are incomprehensible to you, the words seemingly blurring together on your screen.

You’re still staring blankly at your laptop when Morrison comes back with two forks and a mug with something steaming and fragrant in it. He sets the fork and mug by your right hand. “A spoonful of honey, as you like it.”

Clasping the mug—another cheesy teacher themed mug you bought him—in both hands, you take a sip of the drink. Tea, soothing and with a hint of honey. Exactly a spoonful, knowing Morrison. You nod your grateful thanks to him. He only grunts in reply. That’s fine. You weren’t exactly in a talkative mood.

The two of you share the leftover cake, and Morrison talks to you about his class at school. Something about them being good kids, but not willing to apply themselves. He gripes to you about how he’s stuck chaperoning the school dances again. You remind him that he always volunteers.

“Because no one else does it,” he says after his last bite of cake.

“Sure. You keep telling yourself that,” you say, but the edges of your mouth are lifting just slightly into a smile.

You return to your work, and Morrison to his grading. Between the gentle scratching noise of Morrison’s pen on paper, the warm air of the apartment, and all the activity from earlier in the day, you find that you can’t help yourself nodding off. It doesn’t help that your project isn’t the most riveting assignment you’ve ever done.

After about the fifth time your forehead nearly connects with the wooden surface of Morrison’s coffee table, he finally speaks up. “How much sleep are you getting?”

“Enough,” you say through a yawn. You didn’t mean for that to sound as sarcastic as it did. “I get enough sleep to get me through the day.”

“Clearly, if you’re still falling asleep on your feet.”

“Well, for one thing, I’m not standing up.”

“Smart mouth,” Morrison says, but there’s no hint of animosity in his words. Just a little bit of friendly exasperation. He sets his pen and papers down. “Come on. It’s high time you went to bed.”

“I’ve got to finish my stuff,” you gesture vaguely at your screen.

He raises an eyebrow at you, “When is this stuff due?”

“A week from now,” you say, too quickly. Morrison continues to fix you with that unimpressed look and you balk. “Okay fine, it’s two weeks.”

“You’re on top of things, kid. You’ve got contingency plans for your contingency plans. I think it’s high time you went to sleep.”

“I’m not—” you’re cut off by a huge yawn.

“Don’t you dare say you’re not tired.”

“Okay, okay. I concede defeat. I’ll sleep now,” you drop onto your side and just lie there like a limp noodle on Morrison’s floor.

He nudges you with his foot, “Not like that. You’re going to get a bad back before you’re even my age. Get up and go brush your teeth.”

You grumble, but comply. You trudge your way to the bathroom to find that he’s already set out your toothbrush and cup on the bathroom counter, along with a new towel hanging beside his on the bathroom door. You figure you’ve bothered him long enough and decide to take a shower back at your place in the morning.

Morrison’s also brought out an extra pillow and blanket for you once you finish brushing your teeth. The blanket is folded into an impeccable rectangular stack at one end of the couch, and the pillow placed on the armrest at the other end. “Out already?” he asks you. “I thought you would have wanted to shower.”

“Too tired,” you say. It’s the truth, even if it isn’t the full reason. “I’ll just do it in the morning.”

“If you say so,” he shrugs, clearing away the used utensils and Tupperware container as you settle yourself comfortably on the couch. Once you’ve stopped wriggling around and have the blanket pulled securely up to your chin, Morrison flips off the lights in the living room. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Morrison,” you reply drowsily, wedging yourself as close to the couch as you can. The couch always smells vaguely of caramel, you note to yourself right before all coherent thought drops away.

…

You wake up to the unfamiliar beeping of someone else’s alarm clock. At first, you think it’s your father’s alarm, but then you catch the faint whiff of caramel and you know that it can’t be your father’s. You’re still at Morrison’s place.

Morrison is already gone when you sit up, feeling refreshed and just a little bit hungry. You turn off the blaring alarm that sounds loud enough to wake everyone on the goddamn floor. Leave it to Morrison to have the most effective yet obnoxious alarm clock ever.

It’s thoughtful of him to have set an alarm for you, since you hadn’t remembered to set your phone alarm during your exhausted haze the night before. You have class in an hour and a half, but you have at least another 30 minutes before you _really_ need to leave. You could go home and take a shower.

Your stomach rumbles. Okay, you could go home, get something to eat, and then take a shower.

When you reach for your laptop, you see that there’s a Post-It note stuck on the cover. It’s the standard plain yellow one—sensible and not at all like the novelty stickies you’ve been getting Morrison to try and make him more “fun”—and the note is written with Morrison’s careful hand, the message perfectly spaced. _Pancakes in the kitchen, help yourself. Lock the door on your way out, kid. –JM_

Why does he even sign these things? Does he think you’d assume that some villain would just sneak into apartment just to leave his sleeping neighbour innocuous sticky notes?

Either way, your morning is brightened by the thought of Morrison’s pancakes. Now those were something to wake up to.


	3. Everyone needs a dayjob

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit slow, but this story is plodding onwards… it’s got a direction, trust me. Meanwhile, I should mention all characters are University aged. So this is technically Young Genji we’re dealing with.
> 
> You can also find me on spirifer-writes.tumblr.com

You only have two afternoon classes (a blessed occurrence) today, but you get to school before noon so that you can have lunch with your good friend Lena—also known as Tracer to you. She’s already waiting for you at the plaza, bouncing restlessly on her heels. “There you are!” she cheerfully waves you over. “I was worried you wouldn’t show up.”

“I’m actually,” you make a show of checking the time, digging out your phone and pretending to squint at it, “only two minutes _early_ , Lena.”

She rolls her eyes, “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you,” you tease. Lena latches onto your arm and practically drags you into the restaurant. It’s packed full with students from the lunch rush, but that suits you just fine. You can see that Lena is itching to ask you a question, but she at least has the sense of mind to make sure the busy chatter of the restaurant obscures your conversation.

“Any new developments?” she stage-whispers, in a completely non-suspicious manner. “Any heists? Assassinations? Kidnappings? Come on and tell me what I should be paying attention to.”

“Not anything pressing enough for us to skip class,” you tell her, punctuating your sentence with a stern look thrown her way.

Lena pouts, “You skip class _all_ the time.”

“Yes, because sleep is a more urgent issue.”

You both take the time to order from the single, hassled waitress. Lena watches until she’s out of earshot then begins speaking to you in a low voice again, “Are you _sure_ there’s nothing I need to know before you send me back to class? I’m just warning you: I don’t answer messages in class.”

You smile faintly, “Don’t lie to me, Lena. Of course you answer messages in class.”

“What if I told you that you just happen to very conveniently ping me when I’m on break?”

“Right, because a break for a two hour lecture is twenty minutes long. And happens at every ten-minute intervals.”

Lena doesn’t dignify you with an answer, but does stick her tongue out at you. A group of friends enter the restaurant at that moment, and are seated at a table adjacent to Lena and you. Tactfully, Lena chooses to switch topics, and conversation comes easy and light between the two of you as you enjoy lunch and each other’s presence.

You ask her about her studies, and she listens to you complain about your latest team project. She asks you when you’re going to join the robotics club, to which you give a non-committal answer before you deflect and ask about her new girlfriend. Lena lights up at that, and as predicted, starts giving you a play-by-play of their most recent date.

When lunch is finished with and the two of you pay your bills, Lena is _still_ talking about how Sunday’s date down by the waterfront had exceeded every and all expectations ever. You smile and nod along to Lena’s chatter as you hand the waitress your payment. Lena only pauses long enough to thank the waitress before she’s back to explaining the baked goods Emily made.

“Lena, I know you could go on all day,” you interrupt gently and tap on your phone, flashing your friend the time. “But you’re going to be late to your lecture.”

She just makes a face, “Do I have to?”

“It’s for your own good,” you ignore how you sound like an overly cautious parent. “I’ll meet up with you after class.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure to take you up on that!” Lena winks at you. “But what are you going to do now, luv? You don’t have class for at least another hour.”

“Research,” you reply, “for something I’ve been putting off.” It’s Roadhog and Junkrat, but you don’t tell her that: she would insist on helping you, and would end up skipping class for the second time in a week. Hopefully there wouldn’t be anything too interesting with the duo of long-time fugitives.

“Well, you have fun. Don’t get _too_ lost in your work,” Lena waves as she jogs towards her classroom. You nod in her direction and head towards the library. You’re going to have to get there early if you want a good spot to shield your laptop from view.

…

There’s something really refreshing about sitting yourself down in the farthest corner of the library, ready to crack down on getting yourself some answers. Scratching that hypothetical itch of uncertainty, you know.

You start with the obvious—news articles covering the past few break-outs. The articles claim that the duo broke out using Junkrat’s homemade explosives. There’s even a picture of one of their previous cells, and the gaping hole in the back wall. Something about that doesn’t seem right to you: Junkrat’s bombs weren’t exactly what you’d consider garden variety (were there even such things as garden variety bombs?). Where was he getting the materials?

You don’t have the resources to look into the prison’s camera feeds. Sure, you could finagle your way into some older security systems in the downtown area. But getting into the security feed of a deli isn’t even near the same field as the level of work you needed to do for what you wanted to accomplish.

It feels like you’ve reached a dead end, and you haven’t really gotten anything started yet. Sure, a lesser person may have thrown their hands up in the air and called it a day, but you took your role in this seriously. (Perhaps a little too seriously.) You didn’t like the thought of just letting go of the insistent question of how Junkrat and Roadhog had been accomplishing their prison breaks.

Well, you are pretty sure you knew how they were accomplishing it. Homemade explosives? (Technically, they would be considered prison-made explosives. Semantics!) Someone had to be delivering the materials. Sure, Junkrat was as gifted as he was unhinged, but even he couldn’t make miracles. You need to know who was helping them, and why.

You sneak a glance around the library, but everyone is engrossed in their own work. With a level of caution that is probably unwarranted, given the inattentiveness of the average college student, you pull out your cellphone. Your second, older repurposed one that you only ever use to access a single application.

Some time ago Lena had invited you, Deadeye, and Sparrow to this private chat-forum board. She claimed it had been developed by her friend as a message board for the various other so-called hero groups in the city—the same anonymous friend you had worked with to improve your tech.

Typically you don’t like reaching out like this. Lena assured you over and over again that it was perfectly safe, that codename “Horizon” could be trusted. You trust her, and you trust that Horizon is a trustworthy person as well, if Lena is willing to vouch for them. But you don’t necessarily trust all the others in the city, especially as more and more start cropping up. Soon, you won’t be able to keep track of everything that goes on in the city and that bothers you more than it should.

Regardless of your hesitancy, having more people does mean more eyes keeping a vigilant watch on the city. And a more vigilant watch meant more information for you.

You fire off a message into the general channel, just to test who is around.

> **Reader:** Hello?
> 
> **Deadeye:** look who’s finally online
> 
> **Deadeye:** for someone who’s mighty fond of tech, you sure don’t use a lot of it
> 
> **Reader:** I use it when it’s necessary.
> 
> **Ribbit:** heeeeeey! Reader! Good to see you!!
> 
> **Ribbit:** :D
> 
> **D.va:** wb
> 
> **Horizon:** Is there anything you needed, Reader? You don’t usually come online unless something is wrong
> 
> **Reader:** No, nothing is wrong. I just wanted to know if anyone knows anything about the circumstances of Junkrat and Roadhog’s prison breaks.
> 
> **Ribbit:** :O
> 
> **Ribbit:** I think they broke out with explosives every time
> 
> **Ribbit:** wait that’s public knowledge you probably know by now
> 
> **Deadeye:** considering the amount of time we spend catchin those two? oh yeah, we know
> 
> **Deadeye:** hey R, if you really wanted to know, I know someone who can get you into the prison’s system. she owes me a few
> 
> **Reader:** Deadeye…
> 
> **Deadeye:** right, right, darlin’. don't wanna associate, I gotcha
> 
> **D.va:** yeaaah, I haven’t heard anything other than thru the regular news. sorry, Re
> 
> **Reader:** No worries. If you hear anything more about Junkrat and Roadhog, I would appreciate a message.
> 
> **_[Horizon has pinned the message Reader: No worries. If you hear anything…]_ **
> 
> **Horizon:** Speaking of hearing about things, has anyone had contact with Mercy and Pharah?

A few people have begun to type, but you switch off your phone before they can send their messages. What they want with Mercy and Pharah is not your business. Speaking of your own business, the results are sadly inconclusive, but what did you expect?

You rub your tired eyes as you huff in aggravation. You never feel rested enough to deal with these things. And it’s almost time for you to go to class, anyways. This one you actually mean to attend.

…

Your professor ends class early, to leave time for students to ask about the report if they want to. You leave with about half the class, eager to get out of that specific classroom. The AC is always cranked up way too high in this building, to the point you’ve considered bringing a jacket in your bag just to deal with this class.

Lena will also be ending class soon, so you message her to tell her that you’ll be waiting at the nearest coffee place when she finishes. Only half paying attention, you turn the corner of the hallway just a bit too fast and collide with an oncoming person. You stumble from the unexpected contact, and lose your grip on your phone.

You hiss out a word that might have been a curse, but by some stroke of luck or reflexes, the stranger you ran into had caught your phone before it could even think of hitting the ground. He doesn’t even seem to have been thrown off by you knocking into him. He offers your phone to you with an easy smirk, “I think you dropped this.”

You’re a little taken aback by the sheer neon green dye of his hair, so it takes a moment for you to realize he’s spoken to you. He’s not perturbed by your staring and even winks at you when you take your phone back.

“Thanks,” you say, tearing your eyes away from his hair so you can at least make eye contact like a civil person. His hair is so bright you think it leaves afterimages on your retinas.

As soon as you speak, his brow furrows just slightly and he looks at you sharply. You get the feeling that he’s seeing you with new eyes, but you’re not sure why, and his intense stare unsettles you a bit. “I’m sorry, but,” and the look on his face doesn’t exactly relax, but at least it decreases in intensity, as he asks you, “have we met before?”

“Most definitely not,” you say with certainty. “I think I would have remembered you.”

He doesn’t look convinced, for some reason. His brow furrows again, as if he’s running through a mental list of his acquaintances to try and put a name to your face.

“Genji!” a sharp, authoritative voice snaps out from down the hallway, pulling the green-haired stranger (you had never been more certain in your life that he was a stranger) out of his thoughts. “Stop wasting your time. We’re going to be late.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming, Hanzo. Don’t pop a blood vessel. You’re too young to have high blood pressure,” the man—Genji—rolls his eyes but obliges Hanzo.

Hanzo does not seem to be amused by Genji’s antics and hisses, “You are going to be the death of me.”

You hurry out of there, not wanting to bear witness to what is surely going to be an argument. You haven’t had nearly enough coffee today to deal with this level of discomfort.


	4. The eyes of the sparrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows Genji. Reader doesn’t show up except for a brief moment (where they met last chapter), but Genji doesn’t know it’s them. Also, I’m finally figuring out where I want this story to go.
> 
> This is a little later than I had planned to get this chapter out, mostly because recently I've fallen into Overwatch World Cup and I've just been binge watching that since my exams ended.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy some "brotherly bonding" bonanza.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for your kudos, bookmarks, and comments! I hope you've been enjoying reading this as much as I've been enjoying writing this.

The night of Junkrat and Roadhog’s recapture, while you were slipping your way stealthily back into your apartment, Sparrow was doing the same thing back at his house. Sparrow—Genji in his off hours—always kept his windows unlocked for the ease it afforded him in being able to duck back into his darkened bedroom without alerting his brother.

Checking to ensure that his bedroom door is still locked, Genji begins to remove his armor one piece at a time. It slips off him easily, as he had built it to be lightweight. _Maybe too lightweight,_ Genji winces slightly as the wound from Roadhog’s hook stings in protest of his twisting movements. He inspects the armor on his abdomen and frowns when he’s able to assess the full damage of the hook. The armor had been successful in stopping most of the fugitive’s hook, but in return, the hook had scored a rather sizeable gash in Genji’s armor.

Genji frets over the damage of his armor; this thing takes time to repair, and now he somehow has to smuggle the armor over to his workshop without alerting Hanzo.

A sharp pang in his side reminds Genji of the second issue of the night—an issue that was just as pressing, if not more so, than the repairs his armor needed. Genji flips on his desk lamp, bathing the room in a warm incandescent orange glow, and inspects his torso in the mirror hanging off his closet door.

He’s bleeding (as expected. You don’t exactly walk away unscathed from such a close encounter with Roadhog’s hook), but it seems like he’s only bleeding at the deepest part where the hook had sunk into him like an eager dog on an unwary piece of meat. The wound creates an uncomfortable pressure and stinging pain when he twists, but as long as his organs aren’t falling out of his body, he’ll survive.

Genji stores his armor plating in his personal safe bolted to the floor of his closet. He leaves the abdominal pieces on top, for easy access when he figures out a time to take them to his workshop. On second thought, he also snags a first aid kit from its position stuffed at the back of the safe. The gauze bandages are still viable, and that’s all he needs.

Somewhat lacking finesse, and not helped by his persistently stinging wound, Genji carefully winds the bandages around his midsection. It’s not the prettiest handiwork, but if it fits and it stops him from bleeding, then Genji has no room to complain. Despite the years of practice of patching himself up after intense bouts of training with his brother, Genji had never really gotten the hang of it.

It’s a good thing he hasn’t strained it. While the wound isn’t that noticeable under all his armor, it would definitely have started bleeding through if you hadn’t more or less ordered him not to overdo it. It had felt fine at the time, while he was still humming with energy and excitement from the skirmish with Roadhog and Junkrat, but you understood and knew he would hurt himself if he kept persisting. You were right, of course, that he really should pay better attention to his own limits.

He had always gently brushed off your concerns about his injuries, and made sure to pointedly thank you for keeping an eye out for him. Genji knew without a doubt that if you weren’t there to watch his back, he would have likely ended up in a much, much worse position.

Removing his torn and bloodied undershirt, Genji tosses it under his bed. He’ll deal with it tomorrow, or whenever he gets around to remembering it. Right now, he wants nothing more than to conk out on his bed, blissfully unaware of the danger and evil lurking out in the city. He flicks off his desk lamp and drops like a stone onto his bed, barely wrestling the covers over himself before he falls asleep.

…

In the morning, Hanzo is waiting. Of course. Genji really should have expected it, since Hanzo _didn’t_ pounce on him immediately last night, after Genji had crawled through his bedroom window. Hanzo probably had a sixth sense when it came to his brother coming and going.

“Where _were_ you?” Hanzo snaps, his eyes thunderous, when he sees his brother walk into the kitchen. He doesn’t even wait for Genji to set his morning juice down before he’s entered interrogation mode.

“Out,” Genji answers curtly in response, pointedly not looking at Hanzo as he spreads jam over his toast with a single-minded focus.

“Out? Out where, Genji? Answer me when I’m asking you a question!”

Genji forcefully and thoroughly slathers his toast with strawberry jam, “Out with friends. Does it matter where I went? Do you want me to submit a full-length report on what I do every night, Hanzo? I will spare no detail and you will regret it, I assure you.”

Hanzo’s scowl deepens, if that were possible. He stands in the doorway of the kitchen, obstinately blocking Genji’s path to the table and forcing him to choose between acknowledging Hanzo or continuing to ignore Hanzo and eat his breakfast at the kitchen counter like an idiot. Genji begrudgingly levels his eyes with Hanzo’s for the first time that day. And wow, that is one stormy expression.

“Are you playing games with me, Genji?” Hanzo demands, but storms onwards before Genji can even consider answering. Not that Genji _would_ have. “Do you get some kind of _enjoyment_ out of keeping your brother in the dark? You sneak out of the house every. Single. Night. And you act as if I don’t know, as if it’s _beneath_ you to at least give me a warning about where you’re going and when you’re coming back. You come home injured sometimes and act like I’m too stupid to realize something is wrong.”

Hanzo’s breathing is ragged, and if he weren’t the restrained and self-denying type that he is, Genji is sure that his brother would have punched the wall by now. As it is, Genji himself would love to release some of his own pent up frustration over this same old argument with Hanzo.

“You keep up like this, Genji, and your studies will begin to suffer,” Hanzo finally says, breaking the terse silence between the two of them although he struggles to keep his voice calm and even. “I’m responsible for you, Genji. Don’t let our family down.”

Genji feels a surge of irritation bubbling white-hot through his bloodstream. “My studies are _fine_ , Hanzo. I’m on top of things; I get my work done, and I get it done on time. Isn’t that _enough_ for you?”

“Father wants—”

“Father wants us to manage the business after we finish school, Hanzo,” Genji practically spits his brother’s name out. “It doesn’t matter how well I do; and for that matter, it doesn’t matter how well _you_ do either. You’re the only one who cares. With you, it’s always ‘How are your grades, Genji?’ or ‘Are you studying for finals yet, Genji?’. Look, I’m passing my classes. I’m putting in _effort_ , Hanzo. Just like you wanted.”

Not wanting to hear what Hanzo has to say in reply, Genji marches off to his room to get changed for the day. For once, Hanzo backs down and steps away from the doorway, allowing Genji to pass by unimpeded. Genji closes his door with probably more force than necessary and gives in to the urge to swear violently when he realizes he’s left the rest of his toast in the kitchen.

…

Genji’s economics professor is saying something. Probably something useful, or at least something that’s going to show up to bite him in the ass on the final exam, but Genji can’t find it in himself to care. He wasn’t particularly interested in this class, but had caved to pressure from Hanzo to take it. Genji wonders if he can still drop the course to spite Hanzo.

Still feeling frustrated, but unable to get up from his seat and pace out his frustrations, Genji settles on the next best release of pent up ire: doodling. He draws a few caricatures of Hanzo, comically large scowl and various exaggerated expressions of disapproval. Genji snickers quietly to himself; he’s already feeling less scowl-y, as if he’d transferred some of his irritation into these two-dimensional renditions of his brother.

The lecture hasn’t gotten any more interesting since the last time Genji tuned in, so Genji continues to doodle in his notebook. Most of it are small scenes from the day before, as he runs through the events and turns them over in his mind, analyzing them with a critical eye. Had he been overconfident and gotten too close to Roadhog, which allowed the fugitive to land the hook grab? Should Tracer and he have coordinated their efforts more on separating Roadhog and Junkrat?

His notebook page is covered with simple little doodles as he ponders these questions in his head; there’s a doodle of him dodging Roadhog’s hooks, there’s one of Tracer blinking dizzying circles around Junkrat, there’s one of Deadeye combat rolling away from an explosion, and then there’s a few of Reader. The doodles cover the entire page he’s on, scenes of their little group leaping into action, and always with Reader a comforting presence in the background, a stalwart lookout.

“A Sparrow fan, are you?” someone whispers beside Genji, as he’s doodling himself deflecting Junkrat’s grenades high into the air. The voice doesn’t quite startle him, but it does jar him out of his thoughts.

“Something like that,” he says in reply, a little caught off guard. But then he gets his bearings and gives his neighbour a little wink. “I think he’s incredibly cool.”

She makes a little humming note of agreement, “His outfit is really nice, I’ll give him that, especially if he made it himself.”

“But not your favorite, I’m guessing.”

“No, unfortunately not. If I’m honest, my favorite of that group is Reader.”

“Reader? Now that’s an uncommon one.” Genji doesn’t mean to sound so surprised, but your name isn’t usually a popular name to throw around in discussions of supers. You took great care and pride in being able to operate under the radar.

She shrugs, “Maybe they’re not as flashy as the other ones out there, but that’s what I like about them. We don’t see much of them, but I get the feeling they’re out there and that they’re playing a part just as important as Sparrow, or Deadeye, or Tracer.”

_You have no idea how important they are_ , Genji thinks to himself. The girl’s casual admittance of recognizing your importance, even not fully understanding what you do, pleases Genji a lot more than he can explain. “Well, they’re definitely a favorite of mine as well.”

“Clearly,” his neighbour says, nodding down at Genji’s notebook. A good portion of the page is covered in doodles of you—you with your laptop, you sitting cross-legged on the roof, you throwing nuts to feed the pigeons on the roof (you always deny doing this, but Genji swears he’s seen you do it).

The girl turns back to her notes (people actually take notes in this class? Surprise) and Genji turns back to his notebook.

His phone’s screen lights up with an inopportune text. Before it fades away, Genji catches a glimpse of the sender’s ID—Hanzo. Genji immediately feels his mood begin to crash, even before he’s opened his phone to check the message.

> **Hanzo:** Father wants to have dinner with us

Genji decides not to reply to Hanzo, choosing instead to return to doodling Hanzo in his notebook. So, how deep _can_ he draw that scowl…?

…

Genji still somehow manages to be surprised when he finds Hanzo lurking outside the lecture hall (well actually Hanzo was just sitting quietly by himself on one of the couches outside the lecture hall, but that’s _basically_ lurking). “What are you doing here?”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow at Genji as if _he’s_ surprised that Genji is surprised. “Making sure you won’t run off. I wasn’t sure if you got my text or not. Father wants to have dinner with us so I hope you didn’t have any plans.”

“Wouldn’t _dream_ of it, brother,” Genji tries to ignore the urge to roll his eyes. And mostly fails.

Hanzo gets up and heads down the hallway towards the exit to the parking lot, not even waiting to see if Genji is following. Genji makes a face at his brother’s back. Immature? Yes. Satisfying? Also yes.

Genji’s not paying particular attention to where he’s walking, not until someone nearly walks into him. In their surprise, they drop the phone they’re holding and without thinking about it, Genji’s hand shoots out and plucks the phone out of the air before it can finish its disastrous descent to the ground. The sudden movement brings a sharp edge of pain to the still healing wound in his side, causing Genji to draw in a sharp breath.

He hands the phone over, along with a cheeky comment of, “I think you dropped this.”

For a moment, they don’t reply; they’re staring at him (or more specifically at his hair). They accept the phone from him, dropping their gaze from his neon green dye to his eyes. “Thanks.”

Genji’s struck with a feeling of déjà vu, so strong and so suddenly that it throws him for a loop. Does he know this person? His gut feeling tells him they met somewhere, but his memory is drawing a blank. Something in his stare unsettles the stranger (acquaintance? Genji isn’t sure), and they pull away from him. “I’m sorry, but,” Genji apologizes, smoothing out his expression so he’s not as openly scrutinizing, “have we met before?”

Their eyes unconsciously dart up towards his hair and they insist firmly, “Most definitely not. I think I would have remembered you.”

The nagging feeling at the back of Genji’s brain doesn’t go away, and he struggles to place the face and voice of the stranger in front of him to a name. Frustratingly enough, he continues to come up blank.

“Genji!” Hanzo snaps. “Stop wasting your time. We’re going to be late.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming, Hanzo. Don’t pop a blood vessel. You’re too young to have high blood pressure,” Genji calls out, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes again. It hasn’t even been a minute and Hanzo is already throwing a fit.

“You are going to be the death of me,” Hanzo hisses. The stranger, sensing the rising tension between the two brothers, hurriedly bids them goodbye and rushes out of the hallway before Genji can ask them for their name.

“It’s not _that_ bad, Hanzo. And look, I’m coming now. See? I’m walking forwards. Advancing one step at a time. Progressing.”

Hanzo just mutters some aggravated words under his breath and shoves the door open, this time glancing back and making sure Genji is hurrying along. “Now is not the time to fill your leisure time with some tryst with a stranger.”

Genji makes a face, “Is that really what you expect of me?”

Hanzo doesn’t answer his question, choosing only to nod towards his car and say curtly, “Father is waiting.”

…

Dinner is at a cramped little place downtown that Genji likes to frequent. Genji is fairly surprised when Hanzo carefully manoeuvres his car into the tiny lot crammed in at the back of the property. He wasn’t aware that either Hanzo or his father enjoyed this place that served what was basically glorified street food.

Their father is already sitting at a table and he beckons his sons over when they step through the door. The waitress is quick to swing by for their orders once they’ve sat down; Genji and his Father are quick to pick out something from the menu, but Hanzo subtly frowns for a little while before settling on the same thing Father ordered.

Once the waitress leaves, Father focuses his attention on Hanzo and Genji, “It feels like forever since I’ve seen you boys. How’s school been going for the two of you?”

Hanzo is the first to speak, “It has been going well. I’m taking six courses this term, and I’ve been considering running for a position on the student council next term.”

He earns a grave Nod of Approval from their Father. And when Father speaks, there’s a clear hint of pride for Hanzo in his voice. “Impressive, Hanzo. We had such high expectations of you when you went to university, and you’ve more than surpassed them.”

“I am simply doing the best I can, Father,” Hanzo says quietly. The lines around his eyes have marginally relaxed, and the resolute set of his shoulders softens just slightly, as if the thick chord of tension he carries in them has unwound just the tiniest bit.

Their food arrives before Father can question Genji, much to his relief. When the plates are set down, Genji digs in as soon as it’s considered polite to eat, hoping that he will be spared his Father’s questions.

“And Genji, what about you?” Life can’t be perfect.

Genji curses quietly in his head and slows his chewing to think about his reply. “Well, it’s alright. I’ve been focusing on my studies, as Hanzo suggested,” and he puts a little venomous emphasis on his brother’s name, subtle enough that his Father doesn’t detect it but still enough to catch Hanzo’s attention and draw a slight downturn of his mouth. “I’ve been doing decently.”

Genji’s Father nods, “That’s good to hear. You do your best, Genji, and things will fall into place. I haven’t heard much of your antics from Hanzo, recently. I’m a bit surprised. Have you been pursuing a relationship?”

Genji shakes his head, “No, Father. I haven’t had the time to look for one.”

“A shame,” his Father sighs. “Genji, you’re a good son. There’s more to life than just your studies, my little sparrow. You can focus on living a little bit more; you’re still so young! There’s no need to let your youth go to waste.”

Genji looks up to find his Father smiling at him, and it draws a lopsided smile out of himself. “Thanks Father. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Off to the side, Hanzo presses his lips together into a hard line and turns his head away, pretending to be interested in the garish, peeling wallpaper of the restaurant.


	5. Have mercy on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still from Genji’s point of view. We get to see him solo-queueing, er, I mean… we get to see him operating solo. He is very, very extra and I love him.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, subscribed, gave kudos, commented, bookmarked, or even just sneezed in this fic’s general direction! Enjoy this chapter; I am kind of proud of it

Dinner with Genji and Hanzo’s Father finishes up quietly, with Father updating them on the affairs of the family business. Hanzo listens intently, brow furrowed as he takes in the information about how the business’s main supplier is likely going bankrupt, how a persistent and difficult customer is trying to press charges for what he perceives as an attack on his character, and a big mess of other things that Genji tries to pretend he’s not tuning out.

They part ways after the bill is paid, with Hanzo and Genji promising to visit home as soon as they can. The two brothers drive home in silence; Hanzo gives the road much more focus than he needs to, and Genji pretends to be captivated by his social media feeds.

As soon as the car is safely parked inside their garage, Hanzo storms out of the car with barely a look backwards. Genji huffs and heads upstairs; if Hanzo wants to brood over how their Father took Genji’s side, even unknowingly, then Genji will happily let him stew and marinate in those thoughts until he practically pickles himself. At any rate, Hanzo’s stormy attitude makes it easier for him to slip away to his workshop and repair his armor.

The workshop is a quick drive away, but Genji forgoes the use of the vehicle; his preferred method of travelling over the roofs is just as fast. Plus, there’s no sense in alerting Hanzo more than necessary.

Genji’s “workshop” is little more than an old warehouse his Father hasn’t found a better use for. Over time, Genji has stored his belongings and furnished it sparsely into a space for himself. It’s a more than suitable place that he can at least sleep in when he doesn’t want to be at home.

There’s his equipment stored in a locked cabinet, the same stuff he used to make his first armor set. He takes inventory of his materials and notes that there’s at least enough for him to patch up and smooth over the big jagged gash. After that, he’s going to need to order from his supplier online—it’s not like he can just casually stroll into a Superheroes, Vigilantes, & Beyond and toss all that metal into one big shopping cart.

When he’s finished casting the replacement pieces on his armor and waiting for the material to set, Genji takes the time to change the bandages over his abdomen. The injury is healing nicely, perhaps a little faster than what would be consider normal for humans but not at a rate that would draw attention. It’s still going to scar, but hey, it just adds to his mysterious charm, right?

His armor plating is still not completely ready yet, so Genji takes the time to check his phone. His older phone, which he uses as a backup to his current phone, but also to access a single unnamed application.

There’s the general chat, and it’s a lively one today. Ribbit and D.Va are active as usual, but this time Horizon seems to be joining in the conversation. They’re discussing Pharah and Mercy, and Genji skims through the messages, not particularly interested, but wanting to get himself up to speed.

More pertinent to him personally, there’s a private message left from another user. The little notification on screen blinks their name up at him: Reader.

> **Reader:** Sparrow, I’ve been thinking… Message me when you get this.
> 
> **Sparrow:** Thinking? you? well, no surprise there
> 
> **Reader:** I get that a lot and it stops being funny after Tracer uses it for the sixth time.
> 
> **Sparrow:** My apologies, I didn’t mean for it to come out so rude
> 
> **Reader:** And I didn’t mean for my tone to come across as angry. I know you mean well.
> 
> **Reader:** Anyways, I’ve been thinking about Junkrat and Roadhog. Specifically, their escape.
> 
> **Sparrow:** Yes? they used Junkrat’s explosives to break a hole in their cell and then they made a run for it
> 
> **Reader:** Okay, getting over the fact that I have absolutely no trust in the media, don’t you think that’s suspicious?
> 
> **Sparrow:** Elaborate, please
> 
> **Reader:** From what I gather, their cell was located on the far side of the compound, across a courtyard. A heavily guarded courtyard. A heavily guarded courtyard they had to cross to get out.
> 
> **Reader:** Aside from the damage to the walls, there hasn’t been any record of a struggle.
> 
> **Sparrow:** Suspicious
> 
> **Reader:** Suspicious.
> 
> **Sparrow:** I’m going patrolling soon. it wouldn’t be hard to check out the prison complex on my way back, if that’s what you wanted to ask
> 
> **Reader:** No, that’s actually not necessary. I don’t want you to risk yourself getting caught, especially over ‘Rat and ‘Hog.
> 
> **Reader:** It bothers me, but they’re not a big concern.
> 
> **Sparrow:** Are they not? or are you just worried for me, hmm?
> 
> **Reader:** Of course I am. I care a lot for you.

The response you sent was almost instantaneous, and Genji feels his mouth twitch upwards into a smile. He is only teasing you, but the sincerity and adamant insistence he can feel you pouring into that one message makes him feel… warm.

> **Reader:** I know you can handle yourself, but if we do look into this, I want to be more prepared.
> 
> **Reader:** Enjoy your patrol.
> 
> **Sparrow:** I promise to return safe and sound
> 
> **Reader:** I’m counting on it.

Your status switches from “Online” to “Idle”, and Genji gets up to check on his armor. The plating is finished, and all it really needs is a coating of paint before his set will look as good as new. Well... Genji considers the scratched up paint on the rest of his suit. Maybe not 100% new, but closer to a 10% new. Regardless of the state of his paint coating, he’s itching to get outside and start his patrols, eager to feel the gentle rush of air as he leaps from rooftop to rooftop in search of suspicious activity.

Genji’s patrol takes him to a neighbourhood on the east side of the city, an area according to your research that has had an increase in criminal activity in the past year. It’s dark tonight, clouds obscuring the pale light of the moon and the streetlights flickering with weak orange light, but Genji has no problem seeing in the dark. Sure, there’s tech built into his visor that does help penetrate the shadows, but most of it is just a part of his inherent abilities.

There’s something freeing and exhilarating about being able to soar effortlessly, confidently through the nighttime air when others would be fumbling their way through the darkness. Genji admits that he could be a lot less conspicuous when it comes to his night patrols—aerial acrobatics is not exactly stealthy—but there’s no one around to judge him. He can and will have his fun tonight.

A commotion from up ahead sounds a little too much like human voices for Genji to dismiss as just raccoons digging through the trash, so he drops silently onto the neighbouring building’s roof to peek over the edge and into the alleyway below.

He sees three people in total, two masked figures cornering a very neat blonde-haired woman. She has remarkable composure and posture, in Genji’s opinion, to be able to resolutely face down two strange figures holding two even stranger weapons.

Well, not strange weapons as in weapons Genji has never seen before (that’s definitely a knife one of them is holding, and _that_ one is definitely a gun), but strange as in the weapons do not match the appearance of their owners. For lack of better words, the weapons look… polished and professional while the two muggers are decked out in worn black sweaters and jeans, their faces obscured by gas masks. Homemade disguises, very quaint.

Genji’s surprised especially by the gun the taller one is holding. He’s not an expert on this, but it doesn’t look like something you’d get from an over-the-counter gun shop. It’s built solidly, and its owner seems to be slightly straining himself in trying to keep it held up and pointed levelly at the blonde woman.

Throughout this, the blonde woman appears unshaken. She has her hand inside her bag, probably gripping pepper spray or a small firearm—and Genji would bet his bank account that she’d be a deadly shot, if she is able to stay unruffled in this confrontation—but it’s still pretty ballsy of her to face down two armed criminals, one of which who seems to have only a vague idea of how to operate his weapon. In Genji’s experience, a mistake from an inexperienced user could be just as messy and fatal as an intentional shot from an experienced user.

“I’m warning you one last time,” she tells her attackers, her voice carrying clearly through the alley without a hint of a quaver, “put away your weapons and let me leave.”

The shorter one scoffs and speaks in a slightly muffled but distinctly feminine voice, “Sorry, lady. We ain’t gonna be frightened off by whatever peashooter you’ve got there.”

This confrontation is definitely escalating, and Genji takes that as his cue to drop like a cat into the alley behind the shorter one. Genji’s quiet steps startle the two muggers, and they jerk around to face him, weapons drawn.

“Two on one with those weapons? Don’t you think you two are going a bit overkill on this one?” Genji asks conversationally, as if he’s discussing the purchase of pastries or something equally mundane.

“Who ‘re you?” the shorter one snaps out, pointing the knife at Genji, as if to ward him off.

Genji rests a hand lightly on the handle of the sword strapped to his lower back. It’s a casual stance, his posture relaxed, but there’s an alertness to his body that reminds the two masked figures that he’s ready to spring into movement. Genji takes a step forward, and the taller one shifts nervously, eyes trained on the faint blue glow of Genji’s accent lights. “I’m here to even the playing field. But that’s a bit of a mouthful to say, so you can call me Sparrow.”

Without warning, he leaps into action, launching himself at the taller figure. Before the gunman can react, Genji sweeps his legs out and causes the gunman to stumble. He drops the gun as his hands automatically shoot out to brace his fall, but Genji is anticipating this and lands a swift kick to the back of his head. The gunman’s head meets the asphalt with a dull thud, leaving him unconscious and probably with a mild concussion.

His partner lets out a cry of anger and she lunges at Genji, swinging her hunting knife down at him in a wide, predictable arc. Genji ducks from the attack and leaps away, somersaulting once in the air. When he feels his back brush against the brick wall of the alleyway, Genji pushes off the wall into a dash towards her before she can recover. He doesn’t draw his sword, but he does swing his arm into a punch, striking her in the gut and she goes down coughing, knife clattering to the ground. Genji kicks it out of her reach.

“Son… of… a bitch,” she gasps out between hacking coughs.

“You can stop fighting and come quietly,” Genji tells her calmly, “or you can continue. I can do this all night.”  

His target lets out a stream of expletives that he chooses to ignore in favor of looking for materials to tie the two partners in crime. Duo criminal operations sure is popular nowadays.

“Behind you!” the blonde woman’s voice suddenly cuts through the air, and Genji whirls around just in time to catch a flash of steel. Thanks to the woman’s warning, he’s able to dodge what would have been a pretty messy slash to his back; the taller accomplice—the one Genji thought he had knocked out—doesn’t give Genji much time to react and slams his elbow as hard as he can into Genji’s side.

Genji lets out an involuntary shout of pain—jabbed _right_ over his still-healing injury. The man sees him flinch and follows up his attack with another hit in the exact same area, landing it hard enough for Genji’s eyes to water. As Genji’s doubled over, watery vision focused on the stained pavement in front of him, he sees a triumphant glint of steel and a flash of light in his peripherals.

He thinks that this is quite possibly his end, brought about via a large and cruel knife, and he thinks that he’d be absolutely delighted if Hanzo were to have an aneurysm when he found out his little brother fought crime in his free time. To his surprise, the next sound he hears is not the grating noise of steel ripping through his plating. Instead, his attacker lets out a long stream of swears.

The blonde woman at the end of the alley has her firearm pulled out, a little white pistol Genji has never seen before. She faces down the man with the knife with a resolute look on her face. “Put your weapon down and back away.” When he doesn’t immediately act, she shoots a bolt of yellowish light at his feet, causing him to flinch away.

“Jesus, woman, alright I’m backin’ off,” his attacker drops the knife like it’s red-hot and backs away from Genji with his hands raised in a sign of defeat. Only one hand is actually raised, the other one dangles at his side as a dark stain begins to bloom on his shoulder.

“Sparrow,” the woman calls out to Genji, her firearm still trained on the man, “the other one is getting away.”

Without turning, Genji sweeps his leg along the ground and knocks the other woman off balance as she tries and fails to stealthily creep past him. “Nice try.”

“Fine, fine, I got it. We ain’t getting’ through you. This the part where you tie us up or someth’n?”

“Perfect. You’re familiar with the drill, then,” Genji motions for the two criminals to sit with their backs to the wall as he resumes his search for something to bind the two of them. There’s a stack of crates in the corner, with a thick cord used to keep them all together. Perhaps he can make use of those.

The blonde woman walks over—still steadily holding that firearm, Genji notices—and offers him directions to the nearest police station. Genji gratefully accepts, and herds the two docile (well, mostly docile. The woman keeps cursing him out but doesn’t struggle) muggers out of the alleyway and in the direction she pointed him. To his surprise, she walks with him, the firearm still out but held loosely at her side.

When they arrive at the police station, Genji scribbles a quick note of what happened. He motions for the two criminals to step inside, ignoring the way the woman tries to flip him off. He sticks the note onto the crate he “borrowed” from the alleyway to hold the two weapons, and slides it into the police station after the two of them step through. He stays just long enough to wave cheerily at the officer inside, who nearly stumbles right over the crate in his haste to get to the door before Genji leaps away.

“I can walk you home, if you’re concerned about your safety,” Genji offers, when he lands next to the blonde woman who has been patiently waiting while he delivers his “package” to the police. He makes a point to nod at the blonde’s purse, where she once again has her firearm stored away. “Although, you seem to have that covered.”

She smiles gently at him, “I appreciate the offer, but I must admit the reason I am actually here for is to ask you if I could look at your injury.”

Genji freezes up for a moment, unsure if he should deflect her question or outright refuse. She correctly assumes his silence is brought about by hesitation and rummages through her bag until she brings out a badge identifying her as Doctor Angela Ziegler from the Grand Central Hospital.

“If you’re concerned about keeping your identity hidden, I understand,” Dr. Ziegler assures him. “I have no interest in knowing who you are under the visor, but I am worried that you may have aggravated an old injury in the fight. If it soothes your mind, I promise to look away while you change and find something to hide your face with.”

Genji pats the armor plating, “You don’t have to worry about that, Dr. Ziegler. This comes off separately. I am just… surprised that you knew about my injury.”

“I keep up with the news, Sparrow. There was footage of your fight with—what’s his name again? —Roadhog,” she nods at an alley behind a restaurant, hidden in the darkness between two streetlights. “In the scuffle a while earlier, you also favored your right side more.”

“Nothing gets by you, Dr. Ziegler,” Genji hesitates briefly with his hand resting over his armor plates. Dr. Ziegler turns her head away as he unlatches the plating over his abdomen and gently sets them aside. “Usually, when the clothes start coming off, I’ve at least _asked_ them to dinner.”

“Already taken,” Dr. Ziegler says with a small smile as she kneels to inspect his injury, bringing out something from her pocket that when she clicks on, sheds some light in the alleyway.

“They are fortunate to have you,” Genji nods when Dr. Ziegler looks up at him, hand hovering over the bandages. There’s a bright spot of scarlet, but it doesn’t look like it’s spreading.

“You should have gotten stitches in this,” Dr. Ziegler notes with mild disapproval. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your pain?”

Genji considers it for a moment, “A three at most. I am sturdy, Dr. Ziegler. I’ve bounced back from worse in this line of work.”

She shakes her head at him, “Consider yourself lucky. Not everyone can heal quite like you do. Your wound is healing well, and as long as you keep it clean and change your bandages often, it should heal just fine.”

She bandages up his wound again, using fresh bandages she procures from the depths of her purse. With light fingers and an expert ease Genji can only hope to emulate, she wraps it up for him. He replaces the abdominal armor plating shortly afterwards.

“There’s not much I can offer you in return, aside from my gratitude and to make sure you get home safely,” Genji tells Dr. Ziegler.

“That would be appreciated. I live just a few blocks away,” Dr. Ziegler nods down the street as she brushes off the gravel on her knees. “Sparrow?”

“Yes, Dr. Ziegler?”

“You sound young,” she glances at him, and Genji tries to keep his posture relaxed, neither confirming nor denying her suspicions. “I know you’ve been doing this for a while, but you should take better care of yourself.”

“Thank you, Dr. Ziegler, but this is just a hazard of the job. I have survived quite a bit these last few years.”

She doesn’t look reassured at all by his words. They reach a quaint little apartment complex and Dr. Ziegler stops in front of the entrance, “Thank you, Sparrow.”

He gives her a little bow, “It was no problem. Thank you for looking after me.”

Dr. Ziegler turns away, placing a hand on door handle and ready to go their separate ways, but something causes her to pause before she opens the door. She throws a glance behind her, and seeing that Genji is still there, she calls out to him, “If you ever need help, I know someone you can call on.”

Genji tilts his head, waiting for her to continue.

“If you get injured and you need help in your line of work, get yourself somewhere safe and get to the highest point you can. Mercy will come help you. Just… call for help or healing, to get her attention. You may not know her, but I do. And I know she’ll be willing to help you out while keeping your identity safe.”

“I shall keep that in mind. Have a good night’s rest, Dr. Ziegler,” Genji raises a hand in farewell as she enters the building.


	6. Give me a break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we’re back to your perspective. Writing this came easier than I expected, and there was even a scene that I didn’t plan for but am glad that happened.
> 
> This one is a bit shorter, because it’s been a while since I updated and I wanted to get an update out.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented, bookmarked, kudos'd! I hope you've been enjoying this so far.

Days come and go as you slip into your comfortable routine, tenuously balancing your school work (with more group projects than you’d like), home life, and superhero life. You do manage to balance it all, even if it does sometimes feel like you’re teetering nervously over the edge of an unseen chasm.

The tentative calm doesn’t last.

You’re first thrown for a loop when you trudge back home one day after class and find the front door carelessly flung open. At first, your thought jumps right into “thieves” and your heart rate picks up uncomfortably when you realize how your most valuable equipment is just a flimsy door away from being discovered by strangers. As you creep your way down the hall, trying to assess the damage, the source of the opened door reveals itself—a more familiar reason, but not any more reassuring.

Unaware of your presence, or uncaring of it, your father is already throwing back a glass of his brandy. Brandy that you took care to relegate to a dusty, forgotten corner in the kitchen. The cabinet doors are all thrown open, and even some of the drawers are pulled out, as if he expected you to somehow hide the bottle inside the utensil compartments.

He’s home from work early, and if he’s already looking for his alcohol at this hour, then he can’t have had a good day. You grimace, debating between creeping silently into your room to hopefully wait out his drunken stupor or confronting him and getting something to eat. Your decision is made for you when you make some barely perceptible noise and your father spins around, eyes boring into you accusingly.

“What did I tell you about trying to hide my stuff?” he snaps, gesturing in the vague direction of his brandy bottles as if you can’t immediately figure out what he’s talking about. “I’ve had a long day of work, and at the end of it, I’m not in the mood to dig through all this bullshit.”

You just barely refrain from making a face, but you do eye his glass reproachfully, “This is bad for your health.”

He scoffs and pours himself another glass of brandy, maybe to spite you. “You’re too young to know what’s good or not,” he takes a swig of his drink, glaring at you with runny, red eyes, “and what do _you_ know about suffering and work?”

You don’t respond to his question. It’s rhetorical, anyways; years of living with him has taught you that sometimes he just likes to complain and gripe to an audience. An audience that is expected to stay silent. There’s a few empty cups on the counter, so you rinse them out in the sink, ignoring your father as he watches you.

“Your mother left me. Abandoned us,” he mutters after a long drag of silence. It’s his favorite topic to mope about when he gets like this. “You got her blood in your veins, and every day I keep waiting for you to do the same.”

With your back turned on him, you start rummaging through the cabinets. It looks like he hasn’t eaten since he came home (and who knows when that was), and you’re feeling pretty famished yourself. There’s still some canned ravioli you can probably just microwave—minimal time, minimal effort so you can escape to your room as soon as possible.

“You’re so distant,” your father remarks mournfully as you silently pour the canned slop into a bowl.

 _No thanks to you_ , you want to snap. But you don’t want to risk it, and so you bite down on the bitterness forming at the back of your throat.

Your father sags against the counter, dropping his head onto his folded arms, right by the microwave. You prod him with the microwave door until he begrudgingly slides off to lean against the other counter, while you set the timer on the microwave and continue to avoid eye contact.

“I barely know anything about you now,” he mutters, almost remorsefully. “I don’t even know what you’re interested in. What you do outside of school.”

He hasn’t known you well in a very, very long time but you wisely choose not to bring this up. The microwave beeps shrilly, cutting into the tension between the two of you. You bring out a second bowl and scoop out a portion of ravioli for yourself before you set the bowl in front of your father. He looks at you, and you motion towards the food, “Eat.”

He picks up the fork you offer him, but he won’t stop looking at you. As if he’s expecting the audience to participate.

“What,” you say flatly. Minimal time, minimal effort.

“I barely know anything about you,” he echoes.

You shrug. “There’s not much to know. I go to school. It’s going well. Midterms just passed.”

“What about interests? After school? Anyone you’ve been seeing? You aren’t in class _all_ day.”

When you look at your father, there’s no mistaking the thinly veiled suspicion in your gaze. He’s deviating from the script, looking for more than audience participation—looking for audience engagement for a play you’ve long since lost interest in. However, you know he won’t be satisfied until you answer with something, so you quietly murmur out a, “I’ve been thinking about joining the robotics team competition.”

And your father laughs. Actually _laughs_. Throwing his head back so hard you wish he’d almost snap his neck, guffawing as if you are the comedian on stage. Your cheeks feel uncomfortably warm and you feel much too exposed, standing in the harsh blue-white light of the kitchen.

“Oh, kid,” your father manages to grit out through a gasping wheeze, “This again? I hate to break it to ya, but that is one hell of a waste of time. Whoopdedoo, you learn to build some robots. What are you gonna _do_ with that? You sure as heck ain’t becoming a mechanic, or even repairing _Omnics_. One _hell_ of a waste of time, kid. One hell of a waste of time.”

“I was only thinking about it. Didn’t say I would act on it,” you grab your bowl of ravioli and march out of the kitchen.

“Oh, oh, this treatment?” he calls after you. “Storming off like, what, we’re goddamn thirteen years old again? Did I hurt your _feelings_ , kid? Let me guess, you’re gonna close yourself off and have a good cry in there because you can’t handle—”

You close your bedroom door, abruptly cutting off the sound of your father muttering to himself. It does nothing for the bitterness and acrid tang of self-loathing.

Frustrated, you begin to pace the confines of your bedroom. Normally, you’d consider it cozy, but prolonged exposure to your father after he’s had too much alcohol always makes you antsy; the walls feel much too close, as your angry pacing forces you to practically spin on your heels to avoid collision. Your bowl of rapidly cooling microwaved ravioli sits forlornly on your desk, overlooking your barely contained temper.

You’re not hungry anymore, left with a peculiar mixture of emptiness and agitation. During your pacing, you had opened the windows in hopes that the evening breeze would make the space feel less claustrophobic. (It hasn’t really worked.)

Now, you find yourself pausing in front of the glass, looking out at the hazy city skyline. You want nothing more than to be outside, away from all… this. Away from the bitterness, the unbidden self-loathing, the disappointment.

You deserve a break.

A quick scramble for your gear placed neatly under your bed. Suit. Helmet. Gloves. Grappling hook, just for some mobility. You forego the cables for your surveillance and communication devices for tonight; they take time to set up, and really, you’re not hoping to do more than to maybe scout out some new patrol routes for your team.

Agile fingers and practiced ease allows you to slip silently out the window. With the use of your grappling hook, you travel quickly over the neighboring roofs until you get to one of your favorite spots to rest: the roof of a small plaza a few neighbourhoods down. It’s got quite a few structures you can lean against—not necessarily the most comfortable, but at least you have _choices_ —and even a small family of crows that seem to recognize you. You bring them your uneaten ravioli as a friendly offering.

You’ve packed lightly, with only your larger datapad strapped to your back. There’s a week’s worth of articles and reports from others in the community that you have been meaning to look over and assess. You remember that out east there’s been increased activity, and that Sparrow has been changing his patrol routes to match that. It’s about time for you to look over the rest of your team’s patrol routes, anyways, and see if they’re needed elsewhere.

Settling yourself on the roof—datapad balancing on your knee, family of crows quarreling over your bowl of cold ravioli, and what feels like honest to goodness serenity settling in your gut—you start looking at Ribbit and D.va’s reports. They tend to patrol in the more northern sections of the city, closer to the more… inorganic… quarters of the city; Ribbit’s notes indicate there’s been a recent rash of hate crimes directed at the Omnics living there.

Perhaps you can send Lena to help. Hate crimes against Omnics is a topic she is passionate about, as well. But knowing her, she’d be tempted to pick all the fights she can and since these hate crimes seemed to be conducted in groups, you don’t want her compassion and heroics to land her into a very disadvantaged group fight.

So maybe you could send Deadeye out on patrol instead? But then, that would change up current routes too much and Deadeye likes his current area…

The light thud of feet landing on concrete alerts you to the fact that you’re no longer alone—as well as the hoarse cawing of the startled crows around you—but before you can feel alarmed, a familiar (if heavily modulated) voice calls out your name. Or, well, your callsign. But with how often you spend playing the role of your callsign, it’s more or less your second name now.

“Sparrow,” you greet him, unable to stop yourself from smiling underneath your own visor. “I didn’t realize you came this way during your patrols.”

“I don’t usually,” he admits, “but I like a change of scenery now and again. I am glad to have chosen today to make that change.”

“Lucky coincidences,” you agree.

“Or fate,” there’s a hint of cheekiness in his tone, just enough to make you huff a laugh softly and shake your head. “What brings you out of your mysterious life?”

Your thoughts fly back to your apartment, your father, and the constant feeling of agitation and you grimace to yourself. “I needed a bit of a breather,” you say, “and to look up some things in private.”

Sparrow tilts his head towards you, tone still light and teasing, “Look up something things in private, hmm?” And you get the feeling that he’s either given you a wink or is waggling his eyebrows at you.

“Mind out of the gutter, Sparrow,” you try to say sternly, but his presence has put you in a good mood and he inclines his head just slightly to the side in such a way that you’re _definitely_ certain he just winked at you again. And that image of him trying to convey a wink through body language is just absurd enough to pull a laugh from you.

“But if you are looking to take a break,” Sparrow straightens up, dropping his teasing tone, “I could take you with me on the rest of my patrols.”

If it isn’t for the fact that Sparrow has dropped all hints of teasing, and is looking at you earnestly through his visor, you really would have laughed. “In case you’ve been unaware this entire time, or if you’ve forgotten, I’m not exactly as… mobile as you, Sparrow,” you say carefully. “Not all of us have springs in our legs, or whatever it is you’ve got going on with you. My grappling hook only gets me so far, and I don’t exactly have an easy way to engage in combat.”

“I know. Nothing major usually happens on these patrols, but I promise to get you to high ground if a fight does break out and I trust you to have my back,” he says easily, as if it really isn’t any problem. And, oh boy, you really do want to believe him.

“There’s still the issue of mobility,” you remind him. “If you’re going to say you don’t mind waiting, that’s kind of you, but I do mind. I don’t want to be a hindrance to you.”

“You could never be a hindrance,” Sparrow says immediately, sharply. His voice softens a little, but remains insistent, “Don’t sell yourself short.”

You drop your gaze, something about Sparrow’s raw sincerity making your heart swell and warm fondness flood your veins. “I’m not trying to sell myself short,” you explain to the floor, “it’s just that—viewing it objectively—you can get your patrol done much faster on your own. Having me tag along will mean it takes longer for you to finish.”

Sparrow makes a light _hmm_ noise as if he’s considering your words, and you figure that’s that. Nevermind the brief bubble of disappointment you work hard to quash; Sparrow has a job to do and you won’t stand in the way of that.

“Let me ask you something,” Sparrow takes a step forward, waiting until you’ve raised your head to look at him questioningly, “do you want to come along?”

“I—it would—” the words stick in your throat.

“Shh,” predicting your protests, Sparrow hushes you gently, bringing a gloved hand up to rest gently on your arm. “I want to know what you want.”

You take a moment to think, to unpack the jumble of feelings that Sparrow’s proximity has on you. He wants an honest answer, and you owe him that much to put some thought into it. When you do sort out your thoughts, however, you’re surprised by the conviction you find within yourself. “I do,” you tell him quietly, “I do want to come along.”

“Then come with me,” he says, as if it would be as simple as trailing after him on some gentle Sunday afternoon stroll. “Let this be your break.”


	7. Let this be your break(through)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented, kudos’d, bookmarked, sneezed on, licked, vaguely thought of looking at this fic… we’ve reached 100+ kudos and 1,000+ hits! Thank you so much, everyone.
> 
> Work is starting up soon for me, so updates may start to slow down. I’ll still be writing when I can.
> 
> ALSO, while I was trying to figure out positioning I got curious as to Genji’s height and googled it… and there’s no official record of it, but the general consensus seems to place it around 5’5” to 5’7” which is about 165cm to 170cm. Tracer is 5’4” or 162cm. Meanwhile McCree over here is a towering 6’1” or 185cm. A lot of height disparity in this team, I see.

Sparrow’s hand rests gently on your arm, neither pulling or pressing, just providing a gentle reminder of his presence as he waits for your answer.

There’s so much you have to consider: how this detracts from Sparrow’s regular patrols, how you’re going to stay out of sight if there’s a fight, how _long_ this is going to take and if you can get back home in time before your father realizes you’re even gone. There’s so much you should be planning for, and yet…

“Alright then,” you say, letting out a long exhale. “This will be my break.”

You’ve spent so long mired in your own thoughts, clouded by your own doubts, that it feels like a constant ache has built itself into the back of your skull. Surely, you’ve done enough to deserve one evening to leave it all behind?

_Abandoning me_ , the voice in your head—the one that sounds remarkably like your whining excuse of a father—complains. You mentally bat it away as you work on strapping your datapad onto your back; he so easily gets under your skin and you would rather claw gouges into your own skin than let him casually worm his way into your mind.

Sparrow’s hand on your arm gives you a light squeeze, and he takes a step back—not too far, hand still resting lightly near the crook of your elbow.

You sweep your arm out, gesturing at the skyline, “Well then, lead on. I’ll be right behind you, somehow. I do ask that you take it slow. This thing gets tiring to use after a while.” You wave your left hand, the one that has the grappling hook strapped to it.

“Who said anything about ‘I’ll lead, you follow’?” Sparrow laughs, surprising you. Hadn’t been what he meant when he asked if you wanted to patrol with him? “I meant if you wanted to come _with_ me on patrol.”

You’re having dawning suspicions of what this man means, but still… the idea still seems a little farfetched to you. “You’re going to have to clarify.”

“What I mean is,” and Sparrow strolls up casually behind you, watching you as you swivel your head to follow his motions. He stands so close to you, chest to back, that your skin prickles from the proximity despite the layers of clothing between the two of you, “I’ll be right here behind you. If anything, it’ll be _you_ lead and I’ll follow. Your grappling hook can take the weight of two people, right?”

You suppress a shiver, but Sparrow is close enough that he must have felt you momentarily tensing up. He interprets it as discomfort, maybe, and almost steps away from you until your hand shoots out and grab hold of his wrist. This close to him, you hear his breath hiss out in an electronic burst of surprise before he regains control and moderates his breathing back to slow, even breaths.

“I can do it,” you say with a conviction you don’t quite understand. “Just… hold on tight, Sparrow. I won’t let you fall.”

“I know you won’t,” he says as he drops his arm to your waist, hovering slightly until you gave a small nod of approval before he wraps his arms around your midsection.

You launch the grappling hook, watching it wrap snugly around the rooftop railing of the adjacent building. The wire is stretched taut when you give it an experimental tug, inching yourself and Sparrow closer to the edge of the roof. “Ready on three,” you tell him, to which he answers by tightening his hold on your midsection just slightly. “One, two… three!”

With Sparrow clinging to you like an affectionate backpack, the additional weight throws off your timing and balance; you retract the grappling hook’s wire a little too late, resulting in you nearly scraping your entire side against the rough yellow stone of the next building. Sparrow’s impeccable reflexes kick in, however, and he manages to brace himself for the impact with the building, slowing your impact to barely more than a mild jarring.

The two of you hang suspended from the building like some grotesque, badly colored spider. Your face is burning, and you get the urge to turn your head away from Sparrow despite knowing that he can’t possibly see through your tinted visor anyways. “This doesn’t usually happen.”

“That’s certainly one way to pin me to the wall,” Sparrow teases you, and oh yeah your face is definitely in danger of spontaneous combustion. He disentangles himself from you, scaling nimbly up the wall so he can assist your much less graceful scramble up to the roof.

Once you’re up on the roof, and Sparrow has made sure that you haven’t been injured (crushing blow to your pride aside), he offers to take the same position behind you.

“Are you sure about this?” you ask, hesitating as you aim your grappling hook. “Are you certain you don’t want to go on ahead?”

“Unless this bothers you,” to which you’re quick to shake your head no, “I am perfectly content to do it this way.”

“Don’t expect any glamorous acrobatics,” you warn, launching the two of you off the roof. This time, it goes much more smoothly now that you know what to expect. The two of you land lightly—and on your feet!—on the next rooftop, preparing to move on. “We can’t all be birds in the air.”

“You’re doing just fine,” he encourages you, voice a low murmur right by your ear. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you really shouldn’t be so aware of him doing that but here you are anyways, so you might as well enjoy the ride and the warmth of his body radiating through you.

“Can’t really see why you’d choose _this_ ,” you say with particular emphasis as you soar over the roof of another building, “over going on your own. I’d always wanted to be able to be as mobile as you, to move around so effortlessly.”

“Perhaps so,” Sparrow humors you, humming a little flat note of consideration. “But this, too, has its charms. Think of it as a—hmm, what did you used to call it?—a team bonding exercise.”

The motions of soaring over the rooftops is getting easier, allowing you to focus less on the motions and more on the feeling of just being in the air, supported by nothing. “We haven’t had a proper ‘bonding exercise’ in ages,” you laugh, memories of your team’s beginnings rising to the surface. It feels so distant to you, the memories of another life, another story.

“It’s a good thing we haven’t had one in a while, since I distinctly remember you imposing them on us whenever we got into a particularly large argument.”

“We sorely needed it,” you snort, remembering the hesitation, the guardedness. “We barely trusted each other; it’s a miracle we got anything done.”

“Lucky for us, you’re quite a miracle yourself.”

You roll your eyes behind your visor, but his words bring a good-natured smile to your lips. “Oh please, it only takes a bit of extra thought and planning.”

“Yes, but it’s _your_ planning that makes it so effective. Trust me when I say it’s true,” he gives you a slight squeeze to your midsection, sensing correctly that you want to argue. “No more arguments. There’s something—down there—something is going on.”

 Sparrow guides your attention to an abandoned lot that appears to be the remains of what seems to be an auto repair shop. At first, you struggle to see what drew in Sparrow’s attention other than the, ah, unholy stack of garbage in a corner. But then—a faint flicker of something bright and blueish dances in the corner of your vision, seemingly from one of the garages.

The two of you stop speaking, Sparrow nudging you gently, signalling to drop yourselves off onto the roof of the auto shop. There are incoherent murmurs below you, indicating life inside the garages. The faint flicker comes again, this time accompanied by an almost inaudible crackling noise.

Sparrow taps on the side of his helm. Visuals?

You nod, mimicking listening by cupping a hand over your ear as if listening to a distant noise. _And audio too._

Sparrow nods once, briefly, before he’s leaping off the roof—doesn’t do anything by small steps, this one—and towards the garage entrance. You flip out your datapad from its secure position on your back, and watch as it connects with the feed broadcasted from Sparrow’s equipment.

The feed is colorless, and maybe the quality of the visual wouldn’t ever be considered top-notch, but it serves its purpose and you can just make out three figures standing by a rather beaten-up silver minivan at the back of the garage. Sparrow creeps closer to the figures, darting behind whatever cover he can find—crates, pillars, the remains of a small sedan.

The three figures seem to be engaged in an argument, and you catch snatches of their conversation through the microphone.

“—dangerous to be caught with—”

“—can’t be tracked.”

“Don’t know… sources. Haven’t heard of T—”

Sparrow slips quickly behind a pillar, peeking out only briefly to check on the three figures. They’re still deep in conversation, and the man standing by the minivan points sharply at the open trunk. Sparrow ducks back behind the pillar quickly, but you catch a glimpse of stacked crates inside the vehicle. You narrow your eyes at the screen—some sort of trade going on?

The visual tilts as Sparrow scans his surroundings, from the floor all the way to the ceiling, supported by giant metal rafters. You can practically hear the idea forming in Sparrow’s mind as he braces a hand against the pillar he’s sheltering behind.

You’ve never been _this_ close watching Sparrow scale a vertical surface, and it’s every bit as mystifying up close as it is from a distance. It’s almost dizzying to watch how quickly he seems to find purchase on concrete and metal to haul himself up and perch like some vigilant bird of prey above the deal going on down below.

One of the figures swivels around suddenly, eyeing the spot that Sparrow had just left. Seeing nothing there, he nervously surveys the empty space of the repair shop’s garage, “What was that? Did anyone else hear that?”

His companion, short and stocky in build, coughs into their fist, which sends a short screech of static through Sparrow’s audio feeds, “Just rats most likely. You’re getting too jumpy.”

“So, we have a deal or not? I don’t have all day,” the seller in front of them says irritably, arms crossed irritably in front of him. “Look, we’ve gone over these questions multiple times now. The weapons can’t be traced. My source is a reliable one, and has the same motives as you. And you _know_ you won’t be able to get anything like these anywhere else.”

“And you’re _sure_ ,” the stocky one interrupts, “that your little gadgets can kill those piles of scrap and not hurt humans?”

“ _Yes_ , oh my god, I have _said so_ multiple times—! Look, you know what an EMP is, okay? This is like a larger, meaner version of an EMP. This is EMP’s steroid junkie cousin. If you use it, you’re _guaranteed_ to offline any Omnic sucker within the neighbourhood—and all general electronics in the area, so I suggest leaving your phone at home before going ham. And anyways,” the seller flicks a handheld device in his hand, and it sparks to life in a crackle of electricity, “you can take down any stragglers with this thing here. Get it in between the plating, flip the switch and— _fzzt!_ —that’s over and done with.”

Over comms, you hear Sparrow draw in a sharp, hissing breath. You yourself are feeling a little nauseated to hear someone so… blasé about describing the mass murder of innocent Omnics. This kind of thought seems so surreal to encounter in modern life. It’s the kind of perspective you would have anticipated in people twenty, maybe thirty, years ago.

Without a warning, Sparrow drops down from his perch, and the sudden motion startles you. He’s already drawn his wakizashi from the small of his back before he lands, and as soon as his feet touch lightly on the ground, he flows fluidly into a dash at his closest target, the stocky one. The impact is quick and decisive, knocking them back into the shell of the sedan before they can process Sparrow’s movements. In a flash, Sparrow is at their side, binding their arms together with zip ties.

“Hey!” a sharp burst of gunfire draws Sparrow’s attention back to the weapon’s dealer. He’s dropped the stun gun, choosing to wield a large, heavy duty rifle that looks like it’s more maintenance than it’s worth. “Butt your nose _out_ of this, Sparrow.”

Sparrow dashes to the side, avoiding a wild, indiscriminate arc of bullets the dealer shoots. You snort: the gun is certainly prettier than it is practical in the hands of its current owner.

The dealer hisses in frustration, steadies the gun in both his hands and lets loose another volley of bullets that’s a little less wild but still mostly inaccurate. Sparrow stands his ground this time and deflects the bullets away from himself, his motions an inhuman blur. Through the audio feeds, you can hear the light metallic _ping_ of ricochet.

The dealer howls in pain, dropping the rifle in favor of clutching his leg, a growing blotch seeping through his pant leg.

“Piece of scrap!” he curses at Sparrow as Sparrow roughly yanks his arms together and quickly zip ties them together.

“See if you can wrap up his leg,” you tell Sparrow. “He’s bleeding rather heavily.”

“Good,” Sparrow mutters, but does as he’s told, tearing the dealer’s pant leg in order to have the fabric he needs.

Frantic panting catches your attention, and you watch the third participant scrambling across the empty lot towards the street. You glance down at your datapad screen; Sparrow is still busy tending to the profanity-spewing dealer.

“Where do you think you’re going?” you say, mostly to yourself, as you aim your grappling hook at a dejected parking sign near the lot’s entrance. Your hook loops around the metal post, and you pull the wire taut just as your quarry puts on a burst of speed and charges towards the exit. He makes a rather resounding smack when he trips onto the tarmac, and you wince slightly in sympathy. But only just slightly.

Your datapad is returned to its secure position on your back, your grappling hook is retracted, and you use it to gently lower yourself to the ground. The runner isn’t going anywhere after that trip, and you make your way leisurely over to him. He groans in pain as you gently tug his arms behind his back and restrain him. He doesn’t look like he’s going to be struggling too much, so you reach behind you and remove your datapad to make the call to the police.

The datapad connects your comm device to the network, briefly, just long enough to allow you to make a phone call to the nearest police station. “Hello, I’m here to report an illegal weapons trade. Three people were detained,” you rattle off the street address and hang-up before the other person can even react and demand you to identify yourself.

“You good?” you call over to the garage, where Sparrow is standing with the other two. He nods curtly at you. “Okay, police have been called. We should clear out.”

Sparrow sets your three captives up against a pillar before retreating with you onto the roof of the lot. You only wait long enough to hear the sound of sirens and see the black and white police cruiser in the distance; knowing the police are on their way, you and Sparrow quickly clear out of that abandoned lot, Sparrow dashing over the rooftops of the buildings and you following behind with your grappling hook—a little less quick, a little less graceful.

“That was a rather fast cleanup,” you muse to Sparrow, once you deem yourselves a safe enough distance away from the police. “Although, I do feel obligated to say that a little warning would have been nice before you dove in like that. Nonverbal cues are just as good as verbal ones, Sparrow.”

“My mistake. I… wasn’t really thinking it through,” Sparrow murmurs, not quite looking at you. His posture is stiff, agitation pulling him taut as a bowstring.

Instinctively, you reach out to Sparrow—to comfort or anchor him, perhaps—but you freeze just before your hand touches his arm. In the time you’ve known him, it’s always been _Sparrow_ who reaches out. Being on the other end, you’re really not sure how well the gesture will be received. The uncertainty of the situation makes you hesitate, but you reach out slowly, deliberately, making sure that he can see you and move away if he wants to.

He never does.

You rest your right hand on his right shoulder, pulling him into you for a brief (and on your end, awkward) hug. Sparrow relaxes marginally as he leans against you, his hand coming up to yours to give you a simple squeeze of thanks.

“I know that you feel strongly about this. And I know, given the chance to do it again, you wouldn’t hesitate,” you nudge Sparrow. “Just… be careful about yourself, too. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I know,” Sparrow says, perhaps a bit more softly than usual but that could just be a trick of your mind. The two of you lean against each other for another brief moment, just watching the city life unfold in the streets below.

It’s getting darker, and you know, deep down, that you should be slinking back to your room at this hour, waiting for your father to fall asleep before creeping out to check the apartment and make sure that nothing is too damaged. The thought—of your father, drunk as usual, uncaring of the world around him—suddenly and thoroughly drains you of your earlier enthusiasm.

“I don’t want to go back, right now,” you breathe out, barely more than a whisper. Sparrow picks up on it anyways.

“There’s no reason we have to,” he says.

“Yes there is,” like broken plates on the kitchen floor that need sweeping.

“Is there? Will there be catastrophic consequences if you’re not back there _right this moment_?”

Other than your drunkard father stumbling and injuring himself and cursing the existence of you and your mother? “Not _catastrophic_ , I’d say. Maybe disheartening at most. But what about you? It’s getting late, and I really hope you don’t have somewhere you need to be.”

Sparrow pauses, tilting his head in thought. You can’t tell what’s going through his mind, as he deliberately keeps his body language neutral. “At any rate,” he finally shrugs, “there won’t be catastrophic consequences for my absence.

“So that’s settled! We still have a patrol to finish, if you’re interested. We were making good progress before we were interrupted by those three, I’d say.”

“Interrupted? Sparrow, that’s our job,” you snort. “I’m almost getting the impression you’re only out here catching criminals because it gives you time to patrol.”

“That’s silly. I can’t imagine what gave you the idea,” Sparrow motions towards the edge of the building. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Whenever _you’re_ ready,” you reply. Not your wittiest, maybe, but you’ll start refreshing your repertoire of remarks at a later time. Without warning, you launch your grappling hook and throw yourself into the air.

Sparrow makes a short exclamation of surprise behind you, and you let out a whoop of joy as you reach the peak of your swing. You glance behind you to see that Sparrow is following you before you’re launching your grappling hook again, swinging off the building just as he lands on it. It’s like high-altitude tag, you think to yourself. But this time, you’re finally in the lead.


	8. Entertainment and information

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, kudos, commented, bookmarked, and/or threw bread at this story. I really could not have done it without your encouragement and carbohydrates
> 
> Work and a break up have been slowing down my writing but I’m still writing. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

Genji and your patrol takes much longer than he anticipated, although by the end of it, your good cheer and contentment is back so Genji really has nothing to complain about. It’s not even hard to navigate his way home in the dark, thanks to the wonders of enhanced eyesight.

He slips his way back into his room, and stands still for a moment, straining his ears to listen to the rest of the house. It’s silent, and Genji is willing to bet the lights are all turned off as well; likely Hanzo has already gone to bed. A blessing, but a terribly, terribly small one: Hanzo is still an incredibly light sleeper, alert at the faintest hint of footsteps.

Genji tiptoes his way over to his bedroom door and locks it with a soft _click_. Still treading softly, Genji makes his way over to his bed, already beginning the routine process of unlatching his armor pieces.

His routine is rather abruptly interrupted by loud, hammering knocks on his bedroom door, so suddenly that he very nearly _jumps_.

“Genji!” the very restrained and _very_ angry voice of his older brother calls out from the other side, walls muffling his voice but not his irritation. “Genji, I demand you come out here!”

“Give me a moment!” Genji shouts back, knowing it will be futile to try and pretend he’s either asleep or still out. Clearly, Hanzo had been waiting to ambush him since… who knows how long he had been sitting outside Genji’s bedroom and stewing in his anger? Hastily, Genji shoves his armor beneath his bed as fast as he can and stumbles his way into a pair of sweatpants before Hanzo’s anger finishes its climb to aneurysm levels of dangerous.

Genji yanks open his bedroom door, not even bothering to make himself look presentable. Hanzo’s hand is raised, positioned right over the space that Genji’s door was occupying. Hanzo’s eyes narrow into a glare that’s so murderous it’s a wonder that Genji isn’t already writhing on the ground, suffering from multiple stab wounds.

Hanzo shoulders his way into Genji’s room, icy glare practically layering his brother’s room in a blanket of frost. Genji keeps his facial expression carefully set somewhere between “neutral” and the proper expression for “just woken up in middle of night by an enraged older brother”; it’s more of a grimace than anything. His heart feels like it’s beating hard enough to claw its way out of his chest when Hanzo fixes his bed with a scrutinizing look, but Genji keeps his expression mostly unchanged.

Mercifully, Hanzo moves on without inspecting the bed too much, instead focusing on the window by Genji’s desk. A window that is currently open, and Genji can see the condemnation in his brother’s eyes when he looks between the window and Genji. “Who is it?” Hanzo demands suddenly.

“Uh—”

“Is neglecting your duties as a Shimada worth the little…” Hanzo jerks his head roughly at the window, the curtain fluttering lazily in the wind, as if waving.

“You think I’m… bringing someone home?” Genji supposes it’s a logical conclusion for Hanzo to make, especially since Genji’s go to excuse for being absent is “going out with friends”. Still, the nervousness of almost being caught coupled with Hanzo’s wildly inaccurate assumption makes Genji let out an unintentional snort of amusement.

Hanzo immediately throws him a sharp, angry glare that Genji instinctively shrinks away from. Wrong answer, then. “Does it amuse you to play jokes with Father and I? To laugh as if no one was any wiser about your absences and… unsavoury company?”

The wry, suppressed grin that Genji’s been holding back slips off his face. “Hey. Don’t talk like that about Jesse and Zen—”

But Hanzo is by no means done, and the older brother merely raises his voice slightly to cut off Genji’s sentence, “Irresponsible. Brash. Childish. Your actions are impulsive, without thought or care towards those around you. All you know is how to go out and have your fun, with no thought of consequences, always expecting someone else to clean up the mess _you_ made.”

“I _get_ it,” Genji hisses back through gritted teeth. There’s a worn and weary familiarity to this scene, where Hanzo scolds Genji until the both of them have nerves frayed as thin as they can go. Hanzo will berate Genji for being irresponsible to others and Genji will grit his teeth, take his lashes, and hope his secret stays hidden.

“Do you? Do you really? I’m not even certain you can even _hear_ what I’m saying.”

“Maybe I _would_ pay attention if you didn’t just keep saying the same thing every time,” Genji crosses his arms across his chest. “I can give you a summary, watch.”

He’s pushing it. He’s _definitely_ pushing Hanzo too hard, but Genji is thoroughly tired of his brother breathing pure disapproval down his neck at every chance. He’s learned early on that despite the cold rage in Hanzo’s eyes, his older brother is still mostly bluster. So he takes his chance to give his impression of Hanzo, fully aware of how close to taunting he’s getting, “So how does it usually go again…? Oh right. ‘Genji, what would the family say? Genji, you’re neglecting your duties. Genji, you’re an utter disgrace for not doing everything exactly as I say!’”

Frustrated, Genji throws his arms up towards the ceiling in a gesture of helplessness, “I hate to break it to you, Hanzo, but you may quite literally be the only person who cares about what some distant relative thinks of us!”

“Genji,” Hanzo’s lips are pulled back in an expression of displeasure, one that Genji matches perfectly with his irritation, “that is not the _point_. Never forget that you are a Shimada. You’ve been spending too much time with _outsiders_ , people who will never really understand what we are—what you are. Even _you_ don’t understand yourself, but our family can—”

“Can they? You think every single twentieth cousin or something knows what it’s like to constantly try to hide? Constantly have to remind themselves to ‘appear normal’? How can _they_ understand me when not even _you_ know what to do with me?”

“Genji, get a hold of yourself. I am trying—”

“You’re not trying hard enough!” the words are out of Genji’s mouth without him really meaning to snap so viciously, a frustrated exclamation that he immediately wishes he could take back. “Hanzo… I…”

For the first time in Genji’s memory, Hanzo is the first to back down. The anger doesn’t seep out of him, but Hanzo drops his angry glare, leaving something colder, more impassioned and unfamiliar, in its wake. “Maybe you’re right, Genji. Maybe I can’t understand you, my own blood brother. What use do you have for me in your life?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you meant it,” Hanzo’s voice is steady, but his tone is bitter and caustic, demanding Genji to jump in and make excuses, explain himself, anything to soothe him. Genji wants to, but the words catch in his throat, as he’s torn between being soothing and being honest. Hanzo presses his lips together into a displeased line, but doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t even _sigh_.

“Hanzo,” Genji tries again, quietly, “brother. I take it back.”

A derisive scoff is his answer, “What does it matter now? Even if you didn’t feel that way, you still don’t care enough to let me know you. I am nothing but a nuisance to you.”

“Hanzo,” Genji calls out after him, voice rising into something that’s almost a plea, but Hanzo doesn’t even act like he’s heard. Genji is left standing in his bedroom doorway, uncertain about how to regain his footing after this night.

…

Genji sets his alarm earlier than he would usually even _consider_ getting up. Normally, he likes to sleep in after a long night of patrols (or at least sleep until Hanzo decides to rudely drag him out of bed), but he’s not feeling as tired as he should be.

He’s made sure he’s the first one up, the first one in the kitchen. Scrambling eggs in a frying pan, he rehearses what he wants to say to Hanzo. As he sets the table, he thinks about how to say sorry.

Sorry for snapping.

Sorry for leaving you out.

Sorry for making you think you are a nuisance.

But then Hanzo strolls into the kitchen, and all the words flee Genji’s brain like startled minnows. Instead he just nods curtly at Hanzo and points to the plate of eggs on the table, “I made breakfast.”

Hanzo grunts but doesn’t sit down. For a moment, Genji is afraid that Hanzo will decline it and shatter the fragile early morning peace between the two of them. But then Hanzo, very slowly, lowers himself into one of the chairs and takes a bite of Genji’s cooking. He only nods, rather neutrally at that.

Genji settles into the chair across from Hanzo, picking at his own eggs. The silence also settles between the two of them, a stranger getting comfortable in their own home. It’s practically suffocating, but still they keep their eyes averted and fixed on the plates in front of them.

Breakfast ends in silence, and Genji gets a guilty pang of relief when they get up and go their separate ways.

…

Genji’s Philosophy class is his last, and favorite, class of the day. Professor Mondatta’s voice is a soothing, melodic chime as he talks about the day’s topic—an introduction to various Omnic schools of thought.

“As this is a fledgling topic, considering how recent this field developed, so I am not expecting you to know any names so far. However, if you’ve done the readings, you’ll know that today we are going to be talking about…”

Shit. The readings. He had forgotten to do them! And he was going to be meeting with Zenyatta after school, too. Zenyatta, the TA for the course. Zenyatta, who _definitely_ knows he should have done the readings. Zenyatta, who had been looking forward to discussing this topic since school began.

Genji lets out a small groan and lays his head down on the table. He’s mostly ignored: stressed out, overworked students are in high supply these days.

The cool faux wood surface of the table does nothing to ease the oncoming headache.

…

Zenyatta is waiting patiently—although, patient is his default, so maybe he’s just waiting?—for Genji after class ends. He’s sitting in the front row of the class, carefully shuffling a sheaf of papers around, perhaps an assignment he’s grading, perhaps his notes of the class. Genji approaches his friend and TA, standing awkwardly off to the side, practically pressing himself up against the desk to let the students behind him squeeze by.

“Good afternoon, Genji,” he says mildly.

“I forgot to do the readings,” Genji blurts out guiltily, tactlessly, in response. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright. We all have our off days,” Zenyatta doesn’t sound upset, and that eases Genji somewhat, but still… Zenyatta had been so _excited_ for this topic to be brought up at their weekly study sessions. Sensing Genji’s guilt, Zenyatta lays a gentle hand on Genji’s shoulder, “It is more of a blessing in disguise. I’ve been writing my own version of today’s lecture, and I have been looking for someone to help me practice my delivery. Perhaps someone who I happen to spend Tuesday evenings with, who has yet to do the readings and will be able to approach the lesson with a fresh perspective. Someone dressed in the colour scheme of a certain vegetable—”

“Hey,” Genji tugs on his orange hoodie, “this is a good colour.”

“On its own, after it becomes faded from a few good, vigorous wash cycles.”

Genji snorts, “Fine, fine, Mr. Pastel Minimalist. Consider yourself in luck; I happen to know a person who fits your description.”

“Good, good,” Zenyatta says, voice taking on a melodic, pleased quality. The two of them bypass the library, dodging the steady stream of first year students rushing by. Genji watches with amusement as a group of them hurry up the stairs, in hopes of getting to the fifth floor and finding an empty study space; they’ll learn soon enough that there’s never enough seats.

“Poor students; they’re not going to find any space,” Zenyatta comments, as if reading Genji’s thoughts. “It wasn’t so long ago we were like that. Time really does go by.”

“Yeah, it sure does,” Genji lets out a sigh that’s more tired than he cares to let on, his weariness catching up to him.

Zenyatta picks up on it immediately. “Have you been sleeping well?” It’s a gentle, guiding hand in the darkness; open-ended and vague enough to give Genji an easy way out of the conversation if he doesn’t want to discuss it. But Zenyatta is one of the only people Genji trusts enough to be fully unguarded with, and so he takes that metaphorical hand rather than push it aside.

“Not sleeping well is just a part of it,” Genji admits. “Things haven’t been good with Hanzo, and I’ve been… busier.”

Zenyatta knows immediately what he’s talking about, despite his vague wording, “You’ve been taking on more… shifts?” Shifts. As if Genji’s a hassled waiter at a small restaurant and not a neon green vigilante prowling the streets at night.

“There’s no one else to do it, really, and I don’t mind. I _enjoy_ it, even. I’m needed out there, so if I can spare time, I’m obligated to go out there.”

“I know it means a lot to you to be able to do what you do, but remember, you’re needed here too. I worry that you run yourself ragged without thought of the consequences.”

“I know,” Hanzo’s eyes, flashing with cold anger, surfaces in Genji’s mind, causing an unbidden frown to appear on his face, “But it doesn’t _feel_ like it, sometimes. Nothing I do here seems to make any difference.”

Genji shakes his head, as if trying to physically dislodge the doubts creeping into his mind. With a lighter tone, he asks how Zenyatta’s morning went, signalling that he wants to change the topic.

Zenyatta obliges him, although Genji has no doubts that his friend has not stopped worrying.

…

“…and lastly, what did philosophers take away from the Efi Oladele OR15 case?”

Genji glances down quickly at his hastily scribbled notes, spread out in disarray over Zenyatta’s coffee table, “Many Omnic scholars, including Rion and Oroko, saw Orisa’s development with Efi as proof that Omnic minds are capable of independently developing beyond the conventional boundaries of ‘deep-coding’, although how it happened is still being debated.”

Zenyatta nods, “Yes, that is mostly correct. However, you neglected to mention that it was Rion who came up with the theory that Omnic minds are capable of moving past deep-coding, therefore rendering it obsolete, while Oroko theorized that deep-coding itself was more malleable than we had thought. Remember, Rion helped found the ‘Transcendenism’ movement.”

“What?” Genji flips through his notebook again, “Oh, you put it before the case. Sneaky.”

“Was it?” Zenyatta flips through his own notebook, “It was not my intention to trip you up. Not this time, at least. Would it be better if I put the theories after the case?”

“Hmm… it’s fine where it is, although it might help to bring it up again later,” Genji drops the notebook back on the table and leans his body back against the chair, arching his midsection to try and stretch out the slight cramp developing in his lower back. “Ow, ow, ow… Zenyatta, let’s take a break.”

“Certainly, I was just about to suggest that,” Zenyatta watches in amusement as Genji twists around in his seat, turning himself into a pretzel in an effort to work out all his stiff muscles all at once. “One of these days you’ll remember me berating you for your posture.”

“I admire your optimism,” Genji says dryly, tilting his head side to side, listening to the satisfying cracking. “It’s already eight?”

“It is. Which is part of the reason I would have suggested a break if you hadn’t,” Zenyatta leans over and gently plucks the TV remote out from where it’s buried under Genji’s unruly nest of paper. “Are you going to be watching Plan S?”

“As if you need to ask!” Genji can’t stop the wide grin from spreading on his face. “C’mon, channel 12! The popularity polls start right at the beginning.”

Zenyatta lets out a short burst of electronic noises—a snort. “If you weren’t sitting right in front of me, I would have firmly believed you are a lonely grandmother with too much time on her hands.”

“Gossip is gossip, and it gets even more intriguing when it concerns yourself.”

On screen, the host Tim Rollins flashes the camera a quick smile from his seat behind the desk, “Good evening everyone, and welcome to Plan S, your local Super Discussion Panel. We’ve brought in some analysts to speculate on the nature of your favorites, and later this evening, we’ll be talking about our recent interview with our local representative and see what he had to say regarding the recent talks about legislation…”

“Not this again,” Genji complains, “didn’t they have an exclusive discussion about this a few weeks ago?”

“It could be helpful to listen to it again,” Zenyatta hums, tapping a metal finger rhythmically against the sofa. “After all, with how large and unpredictable the field of ‘civilian based justice’ has become, it is only a question of ‘when’, not ‘if’, legislation will be passed.”

Genji knows that Zenyatta is right (of course), and if he were honest, the inevitability of it really dug its way under his skin. No matter what aspect of his life, it seemed, there would be an authoritative force trying to shape it.

Tim Rollins finally decides they’ve subjected their viewers to enough politics and addresses the camera, “So now we’ll go over this week’s standings. You’ll see some new faces in this poll.”

The screen flashes over to a scoreboard, containing the names of the heroes and the best pictures available of the heroes. Unsurprisingly, most of the pictures are blurry candid shots taken by startled civilians with quick fingers. Or maybe civilians who were just really, really used to taking photos at any given moment.

There are only three that stand out from the rest, coincidentally also in the top three slots. D.va, Ribbit, and Genji himself, as Sparrow. Unsurprisingly, D.va is back at the top, and her photo—posing theatrically with a star-struck fan— just practically beams out at the audience, even through her bunny helmet.

“It was a close one,” Tim Rollins continues talking offscreen, “and if you’re a fan of Ribbit yourself, you should be proud of yourselves for keeping Ribbit in the number one spot for not one but two weeks straight.”

One of the other panelists—a newer face who Genji hasn’t been paying attention to much—adds in, “Sparrow’s fanbase is also steadying out. While it feels like D.va and Ribbit have always been scrambling around the ladder—always in the top five areas, of course—viewers will always remember Sparrow as the steady favorite.”

“Indeed. This is something in the range of three weeks that Sparrow has held at third place.”

“They treat it like a spectator sport,” Genji comments, leaning back and trying not to look too pleased.

“And yet here you are, helpless to prevent yourself from spectating,” Zenyatta points out, vague amusement coloring his tone as he watches Genji discreetly trying to hide his smile.

“Hey, I never said I didn’t enjoy it, did I?”

“Speaking of our steady favorite,” Tim Rollins is speaking on screen again, the camera panning over him and the rest of the panelists at the table, “it’s surprising that we haven’t had a Weekly Spotlight for our favorite green ninja. Seems like a crime to leave such an accomplished hero unspoken and unsung for so long. Fans will remember Sparrow’s long history with this city, making him one of our oldest and most beloved.”

“I take it that you’re pleased,” Zenyatta comments in amusement as Genji’s picture—or rather, Sparrow’s picture—flashes on screen.

Genji shrugs with one shoulder, any semblance of nonchalance completely obliterated by the bright and happy grin he can’t seem to wipe off his face.

His phone—the older one—lights up as a flood of messages pour into his inbox.

> **Ribbit:** Congrats Sparrow! Good work!
> 
> **Tracer:** you’re in the spotlight!!!!
> 
> **Deadeye:** lookit you, bigshot, you’re practically famous at this point
> 
> **Reader:** Congratulations on the spotlight. Knew it was only a matter of time.
> 
> **[+3]**

Genji grins. A spectator sport, indeed.

…

Almost halfway across the city, you pull out your own notebook as the camera focuses on the four members of the panel, ready to begin the weekly highlight. It feels odd to call this tabloid-like piece of entertainment “research”, but by the loosest definition of the word it qualifies—you _are_ watching Plan S for informational purposes, after all, and not leisure. (However, you’re strong enough to begrudgingly admit that occasionally—very, very occasionally— the panelists are interesting enough for you to crack a smile.)

Tim Rollins and another panelist—Dana Chu, who you’ll admit having a slight bias towards—are running through a brief summary of Sparrow’s known career. You don’t bother to take notes, of course, considering that you were present for most of the notable events. And besides, the information is clearly pulled off SuperWiki anyways.

“Dana, it’s amazing all the progress Sparrow and his team have made throughout the years. There's no doubt about it that Sparrow is a friendly addition to any neighbourhood, but there is still quite a bit of discussion surrounding him,” Tim Rollins thumbs through his notes briefly, the pause in conversation giving you enough time to start creating headings in your own notebook, “specifically the source of his ease and prowess with his role as a hero; is he human or Omnic, and does his skill come inherently?”

You involuntarily tense, the action creating an uneven jagged squiggle where you had been meticulously penning an underline.

“Well Tim, the internet has always had a sort of, ah, fondness discussing these topics. Viewers of Plan S will likely be passingly familiar with the arguments, but for the sake of keeping everyone up to date, I’ll run over some popular points.

“By now, you’ve probably at least heard about the discussion surrounding Sparrow’s origins, and it’s almost an even split between people who believe him to be human and people who believe him to be omnic.

“There’s sufficient evidence for both sides, of course,” Dana starts listing a very, very brief summary of all the arguments you’ve seen online. The gist of the arguments run something like “Sparrow could be an omnic simply because what he’s been seen to do is much more advanced than what a human could accomplish” while the counter-argument goes “Sparrow could be human simply because he’s too organic, fluid, and light to be an Omnic.”

Nothing new is brought to the table, of course, and you _knew_ that you wouldn’t learn anything substantial from this—and Dana missed a few of the more interesting points you could find if you trawled the internet long enough.

Really, all that this “discussion” is doing is instilling in you a heightened sense of respect and approval for Sparrow; to be able to confound so many viewers and “specialists” (and, admittedly, even yourself) for so long really speaks for Sparrow’s capacity for subtlety. The fact that he doesn’t look the part—nothing about neon green paint and electric blue highlights suggest subtlety—only adds to your positive opinion of him.

_But then again, you’re rather biased, aren’t you?_ A dry little voice remarks in the back of your mind. You mentally shoo it away with an imaginary broom: you have a program you’re trying to pay attention to.

“…mystery of the origin of his abilities,” Dana finishes, “which is what we’re here to talk about today.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Dana. I’ve seen online a lot of arguments that really have made me consider both sides very seriously! Take for example, Watcher36’s observation on this following video…”

You feel your face pulling downwards into a deeper frown when you see the grainy footage flash onscreen. Besides the whole sensationalist feeling these types of homemade videos carry, you know this video all too well. In it, Sparrow is standing over the unconscious bodies of a group of armed robbers. His stance is relaxed and cheerful over a job well done, and he’s just stepping away from the bodies when—in one fluid motion too fast for the camera to catch—he spins around in a half circle right as a deafening _crack_ resounds. A split second later, you barely hear the metallic whizzing of a bullet sent off its intended path.

“The speed with which he responded is near inhuman,” Tim Rollins voice is filled with equal parts awe and approval. “Watcher36 ran the calculations, and concluded that Sparrow reacted mere milliseconds _before_ the gunshot. No matter how you look at it, that’s some impressive reaction time, and as good an argument for premonition as we’ll get.”

You scoff. Premonition indeed.

…

“Premonition indeed,” Genji laughs at the commentators discussing how phenomenally impressive his reaction time is.

“What’s this I hear? Would the ‘expert’ like to give his own input?” Zenyatta gets a playful shove to the shoulder for his smartass comment. “You don’t mean to tell me that wasn’t a sixth sense?”

“Not unless the sixth sense is teamwork,” Genji roots around the near-empty chip bag perched precariously on the edge of the table. “They always have my back. Some things are certain in life, Zenyatta. You’re always going to want to do good in the world, Hanzo’s always going to disapprove of me, and Reader will always have my back.”

“You place a lot of faith in them,” Zenyatta remarks as Genji munches avidly on a handful of chips.

“If you could only see them out there, you’d know it’s the least they deserve.”

…

You have to remind yourself constantly that you’re watching this program for _information_ , not entertainment. Certainly not entertainment! What would be so fun about simmering gently in irritation every once a week?

And _objectively_ speaking, this has been a very fruitful endeavor; the world still knows barely anything about Sparrow, and many theories—most prominently, Sparrow’s “premonition”—are wildly off. Really, tonight’s discussion should have left you with a sense of satisfaction that despite the city’s best efforts, you all could remain hiding in plain sight.

You’re not watching this for “insightful comments”. You’re not supposed to come away from this show with anything other than a clinical observation of the city’s general opinion of you, Sparrow, Tracer, and Deadeye.

And yet, here you are, frowning angrily at the screen and replaying over and over and over one offhanded comment Tim Rollins had tossed out in the middle of a discussion.

_“It’s unclear where Sparrow’s abilities stem from, but there’s a lot of arguments for considering them inherent rather than adapted, or augmented. I mean, all you really need as evidence is to just_ look _at how he moves… see? Look at that.”_

Part of you agreed; Sparrow moved with an easy grace you had come to associate with others with inherent powers… completely different from someone who had to fight—inch by painful inch—to fit themselves into the role they had fashioned for themselves. Someone like you.

If his powers weren’t inherent, would they still think the same of him? Would they accuse him of trying to force his way through a world that wouldn’t welcome him?

_Like you?_ the same dry little voice pipes up at the back of your mind. You studiously ignore it.

The show is wrapping up, Dana and Tim telling the audience about Councillor Gerard Lacroix who was still adamantly against the “augmentation identification” list that had been in recent discussion.

Now this is something actually important, so with an internal sigh, you tiredly pack your bitterness in a small box and shunt it off to the side. You have better things to do.


	9. Completely unsuspicious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented, gave kudos, read, and printed out this story then sacrificed a copy to the eldritch gods on Halloween! Seeing how many people reacted last chapter really gave me that warm, soupy feeling in my heart (I’m told it’s called “affection”).
> 
> You guys are the best! This chapter is a bit short because I wanted to get something out before November; NaNoWriMo is starting and I’ll likely be busy with that. I promise we’ll get to the action soon!

The evening news starts right after Plan S finishes, and they pick off right where the panelists left off—on the topic of Councillor Lacroix’s adamant stance against recent pushes for more regulation with the “augmentation identification” lists.

You have to admire Lacroix’s tireless dedication to the cause, pushing back against arguments and counter-arguments. “Imposing such strict and inflexible rules so swiftly will only serve to alienate the civilian base whose intentions are to give anonymous assistance in ways that law enforcement cannot—whether because of physical or bureaucratic limitations—and will only bog down our departments with more red tape and resentment,” Lacroix, an incredibly well-groomed and unflappable man addresses the cameras. His tone is calm, and he’s been jeeringly mocked as “too soft”, but there’s a conviction crackling in his eyes that makes you put your faith in him despite the media’s insistence that eventually, Gerard Lacroix will have to concede defeat and back down.

Despite your stalwart belief in Lacroix’s abilities, you have to try and make unbiased notes regarding public opinion on Lacroix and his opposition’s stance. Politics remains forever a tightrope your team is perched precariously on; at any moment, Lacroix might stumble, and the regulators will be all over the city, ferreting out people like you and your team as hound dogs round up foxes.

If that were to happen, you want your team off the radar at least a week _before_ the event. Plenty of time to cover up tracks and let your trails go cold. But until then, there will always be a slight tension in the back of your mind, wondering if this is it, your last act.

You want to know where the future is going. You want to plan your next moves. You want to be out there, scouring the streets with Deadeye or Lena or Sparrow. You want to be away from this apartment, you want—

Deep breaths.

There are so many things you want, but there’s so little you can do about it.

You reach instinctively for your laptop. What can you even accomplish at this moment? You don’t know, but right now you just want to be busy. Give yourself something else to focus on as you slowly scrape your emotions off the floor of your soul and ball them up in a deeper, dustier recess.

Out of habit, you pull up the website of the local news station. You’re still following up on the case of the weapons dealer from a day ago. It’s just general questions you’re obligated to get answers to. Has he been taken in? Are there others you need to watch out for? Have there been related incidents? This type of research you apply to every case you can, no matter the size or your interest (or disinterest) in the matter.

You have to do a bit of digging to find a mention of the dealer; tonight’s news is all about Councillor Lacroix. There’s already three opinion pieces, one front page article, two blog posts (and counting!), not to mention the exclusive interview the news station keeps mentioning.

What sort of world did you live in where a politician’s speech had more coverage than the arrest of a black market weapons mogul?

…Okay so the guy you and Sparrow took down wasn’t necessarily a _mogul_. Maybe a henchman on the verge of promotion at best, but still. The sentiment still stands. When did politics get more interesting than illegal arms deals?

The article you find actually just barely covers the arrest of your weapons dealer. He’s an afterthought tacked on in the article titled _Fears of gang violence plague communities_ : “Authorities continue to reassure the public that the rumors of ‘Talon’ are still just rumors despite the claims of an illegal arms dealer taken into custody yesterday.”

There’s little else to do here; he’s been taken in by the law—ranting and raving, it would seem—and officially it’s out of your hands now. All you really have left to do is maybe follow the trial for the next little while—time permitting, of course—before his face blurs and melds into the background of your memories, like all the others you’ve apprehended.

And yet, something makes you pause as you hover your cursor over the little red “x” in the corner of the screen. There’s something about the fact that you found information on your guy in an article about a nervous rumor in the rise of gang violence.

Sure, rumors are rumors. But you like to think that you wouldn’t have gotten this far without being willing to put in the extra work and sparing at least a second glance for these implausible claims. And so, that’s how you justify it to yourself when you move your cursor away from the “close tab” option and save the article as a bookmark instead.

Just something to look into when you’ve got the time, perhaps.

Speaking of time, a cursory glance at the cracked plastic clock hanging on the living room wall tells you that your father is well past the time he’s usually home. You want to think that means he’s taken on an extra shift at one of his jobs, but he could just as likely be spending the night at a pub. The thought puts a frown on your face immediately.

Either way, it’s high time you moved back to your room anyways. Shutting off the TV, snapping your laptop lid closed, you shuffle the few steps down the hall to your bedroom and close the door. You lock it out of habit.

Out from underneath your bed slides the thick, sturdy case containing your equipment. The click of the locks unlatching—a neat, smooth, damn _efficient_ sound—never fails to send a giddy thrill shuddering down your spine, tamer but still satisfying compared to the euphoria that trembled in every fiber of your being the first time you strapped and wired in your equipment to your suit. Some things, you hoped, would never change with time or socio-political climate.

Your main screen boots up immediately to show you the security feeds you had access to; the one thing you learned from your stint as a recreational superhero was how rarely people checked their cameras. Cycling through the feeds, you make a mental map of the area covered by your cameras—or, well, the cameras you had access to. “Soft patrolling”, Deadeye had teasingly called it once.

He can tease you all you like, but in half the time it would have taken you or even Sparrow to circle the area, you had a general assessment ready. Nothing much had changed along that street; the old café by the stoplight was still boarded up, and the little Thai food place run by the elderly couple still had a bowl of stale water out for the strays that wandered by. A month ago, the place had been plagued with a series of robberies, but after rerouting Tracer to include the area in her patrols, it seems as if potential robbers have been sufficiently discouraged for now.

The next area is the residential area a little bit east of you. You don’t linger long on these feeds; your job is to make sure there’s no foul play, not to interfere in the lives of others.

 _Click_. Compare to the feeds from your last “patrol”. _Click_. Compare. _Click._ Compare. It’s almost therapeutic. You’re starting to have a strange definition for the word “therapy”.

You get through three more neighbourhoods like this, without anything noteworthy appearing. Another day, another patrol, it’s starting to look like.

 _Click_. A barber salon closing for the night. _Click_. A little silver car, the kind you find in every single suburban neighbourhood ever, cruising slowly down the street. _Click_. A little trinket store that always looks like it’s on the verge of shutting down permanently. _Click._ A bank, windows already dark except for the fluorescent ATM sign blinking sporadically. _Click_. Rows and rows of cramped residential buildings—hey, someone still has their Halloween decorations up. _Click._ A little silver car, quaint and suburban, plodding slowly along the empty road.

You pause, watching the car inch along. Driving slowly in a residential neighbourhood isn’t usually suspicious, but the pace at which the silver car creeps onward—on an empty road, no less—makes it look too much like it’s _observing_. Cataloging. Tallying. Making an assessment.  

Maybe it’s just a friend visiting another friend in an unfamiliar part of town. There’s no need to jump to suspicious conclusions.

You follow the car with your cameras as best as you can, jumping from one feed to the next as it slowly trundles out of your field of vision. It moves out of the residential area, onto the road with the shops lined up neatly, and you expect the little car to pick up speed—move onto the next residential area, maybe, and resume looking for that hypothetical friend.

It doesn’t. The car continues its meandering pace down the street, even ignoring the irate honking and eventual angry engine revving of a blood-red sports car following close behind. The sports car screeches around the silver car, passenger window rolled down as the occupants shout some choice curses. Or, you think they do, anyways; it’s not like these cameras have any _microphones_. But you’re great at inferring.

The silver car doesn’t change its speed at all. You’re definitely more suspicious—well, more _justified_ in being suspicious—and you’re willing to bet that the occupants in the car are doing some sort of recon, scoping around for some reason. But what? What is even in this area?

You quickly cycle through your feeds. Barber salon—maybe someone with a bad haircut has a personal vendetta? Trinket store—who doesn’t have a passionate hatred for tacky, overpriced keychains? Bank—

Well of course. A closed bank with a glaring “ATM inside” sign, obvious in hindsight and so glaringly simple you had overlooked it.

Snatching your “work” phone, you quickly composed and sent a message to your team explaining the situation and instructing them on where to meet you—leave it to you to put the “brief” in “briefing”. While waiting for them to go through your message and respond, you begin the process of securing and double checking your equipment; you won’t stand for sloppy work even in emergencies ( _especially_ in emergencies).

Three successive chimes draw your eyes down to your phone.

Tracer, Deadeye, and Sparrow all answered in the affirmative and you can’t help but smile at that. It’s been a while since the whole team was together.


	10. Heroics and happenstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, I’m finally back after Nanowrimo. Guess what? I actually finished on time! 50,221 words, and a new WIP. As it is, I’m glad to be back writing this.
> 
> Happy Holidays! I wanted to get this out on Christmas, and I’ve succeeded!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented, kudos, bookmarked, or poked at this story with a ten foot long pole!

You pace the rooftop of a small plaza, walking in tight, restrained circles around the paved surface of the roof. It’s much too low for your preferences; a condominium looms across the street from you, and _knowing_ that there’s nothing you can utilize to hide from the residents sets you on edge a little. There’s a billboard in the corner of the roof that provides some cover, but not nearly enough for you to deem it passable.

Normally, you would never pick a location such as this one—and after today, you’d likely never come back—but there’s one thing this location has that a lot of your regular locations don’t: an exterior service ladder.

There’s a grunt and a noisy clang as someone kicks the ladder. “It’s always a roof,” a familiar voice drawls out, “why can’t you ever call a meeting on the nice, flat ground?”

You pivot sharply on your heel, watching as Deadeye hauls himself over the edge of the roof and rolls over the ledge with a grunt. Lena—Tracer—follows closely behind him, geared up in her usual getup.

A quiet noise behind you signals the arrival of your last team member. You nod at Sparrow, even as you’re responding to Deadeye’s question, “Can you imagine meeting like this on the ground? People would stare.”

“Because four people meeting on a darkened roof is much less shady…”

You ignore him, choosing to open up your datapad to the information you had compiled during your wait, “A short time ago, I saw this car acting suspiciously in a neighbourhood in this area. Likely they’ve been scoping out the areas, looking for patrols, witnesses… the usual.”

The datapad shows them a map of the neighbourhood in question, with the bank circled. The three of them nod solemnly, making the same conclusions as you did.

“I’ve been monitoring them ever since I felt something was off,” you inform them, reaching behind you and securing your datapad back in its place on your back. “A little over five minutes ago, a group of three left the vehicle and entered the bank. You all know what to do.”

“Subdue them, and fight defensively,” Tracer chirps. “We’re practically pros on bank robbers at this point!”

“So lucky to have Deadeye on our team, aren’t we?” Sparrow ribs his friend gently, and gets a friendly shove back.

“Remember, don’t take on more than you think you can handle,” you ready your grappling hook, prepared to mobilize with your team. “I want all of you _safe_ more than I want these people apprehended.”

They all make some noise of acknowledgement, although you make sure to give Sparrow a pointed stare through your visor. He shrugs in a _what can you do_ manner.

Deadeye and Tracer make their way over to the service ladder—the detriments of not having mobility equipment or superhuman (superomnic?) reflexes—and begin to descend.

The bank isn’t far away, and Tracer is the first one to arrive, a blinding blue flash that blinks its way through the streets below. Sparrow follows closely behind her, a faintly green silhouette arcing gracefully through the air.

You follow after him, arcing perhaps a little less gracefully through the air, but passably mobile in your possibly unqualified opinion. Deadeye is last to follow, on the ground, weaving effortlessly through the streets.

The little tacky trinket store has the highest vantage point—allowing you to keep tabs on the bank as well as the stalled getaway vehicle at the corner of the residential street—and that’s where you choose to land. The rest of the team pulls ahead of you, moving into position, ready to intercept the robbers.

“Visuals ready,” you report as soon as you load up the feeds from the tapped security cameras around the bank. There’s one across the street, hanging in a doorway and giving you a limited view of the front of the bank. Another one is of the camera inside the bank, hanging right over the ATM.

The second camera gives you a clear, almost bird’s eye view of the group of three robbers crammed into the small booth. The harsh fluorescent lighting of the room throws stark shadows over the three of them. Between the brightness and the rather mediocre quality of the camera feed, you almost miss the little flares of reddish light their tools give off. There’s just barely enough shadow created between their huddled bodies to make the flares visible.

Behind your visor, your eyes narrow, “Everyone, be careful. I don’t know how, but these people have gotten laser tech. Keep your distance.”

Your suspicions are further solidified when you spot a thin, wispy curl of white smoke through the camera feeds. One of the robbers—the one holding the tool, you assume, although you’re not close enough to be absolutely certain—flinches, waving a hand as if burned.

The team is already in position outside, Tracer and Deadeye posted outside the doors, ready to flank the group when they move into the wider area of the streets. Sparrow is perched, much like his namesake, across the bank, ready to swoop in to prevent any escapees.

Lifting your eyes off your datapad, you do a quick scan of your surroundings. The street is empty, in fact. You think someone had passed by earlier, given Tracer and Deadeye a strange look, but hadn’t questioned it and moved on. The residential streets have slightly more signs of life, mostly within the dreary houses, hidden by faded blinds. There’s one or two people about; two youths who turn down a street corner, a mother and her child leave a house, and a young girl with a bright blue backpack balancing playfully on the curb are all you notice from your cursory sweep.

The getaway vehicle sits idle, parked innocuously in the street. You can’t see into the car in your current position, but you’re under no delusion that the car is empty; a getaway vehicle is useless without a getaway driver.

Commotion from the bank pulls your focus back to the team—you put the possible issue of a getaway driver onto the backburner. The robbers have exited the store, drawing Deadeye and Tracer to engage.

The group of three is cocky, from what you can see and hear (minimally) from the noise carried over the comms. A couple of ill-gotten laser guns—and not even proper training on how to _use_ one, judging from how one robber’s grip hovers far too close to the exhaust port—and suddenly they think they’re immune to the law.

Neither Tracer nor Deadeye are particularly impressed. Laser weaponry, while not available to the public, isn’t exactly uncommon in your business.

Your gaze flickers back to the getaway vehicle. No change.

Shots are fired, the bright light giving away the fight going on in the streets more so than the sound. Tracer and Deadeye nimbly leap out of the way with practiced ease; Tracer blinks rapidly around the street, never giving the robbers a chance to steady their aim. Deadeye is much less graceful about it—he rolls behind a car, avoiding a volley of bright laser fire.

Sparrow is silent but tense, watching over the fight with single-minded focus. You can see the eagerness coiled in him, drawing him taut, held rigidly still by his self-discipline.

The weapons don’t take long to drain—despite advancements made to portable battery technology, laser tech is still incredibly energy intensive. It doesn’t take long for the robbers to realize simultaneously that they’re at a far greater disadvantage than they had thought. Amazing what an empty ammunitions chamber can do.

Everyone, all at once, erupts into a flurry of movement. The three robbers scatter, two of them abandoning their heavy weaponry in favor of faster flight. Deadeye and Tracer are on them in a blink—pun intended—tackling the two runners to the ground.

The third one hesitates for a fraction, unwilling to let go of his own weapon. But that’s quickly remedied when he sees his companions swiftly taken down by your teammates and he immediately takes off down the street in the opposite direction. He’s shouting something—into a communicator? You can’t tell—and though his words don’t carry, his intentions are glaringly obvious like a highlighted passage in an otherwise blank textbook: he’s calling for backup.

You don’t even need to draw Sparrow’s attention. He’s already leaping forth from his perch the moment the robber pivoted on his heel and turned his back on the other two. The robber’s panicked call is cut short as he’s slammed into the pavement with bruising force.

There’s no time to congratulate or even check up on your team; a sharp squealing screech of rubber tires kicking into high gear has you kicking yourself for not paying more attention to the getaway vehicle. Until now, you couldn’t even be certain that the little lethargic car was capable of acceleration.

But accelerate it does, wildly and recklessly, its driver forcing the little vehicle to its limits to get to the rest of the group. The car rockets forward, single-minded with hell-bent determination and no regard for traffic laws, driving etiquette, physics, or the small, frozen figure of a startled kid with a bright blue backpack in the middle of crossing the intersection.

You’re in motion before you even make the conscious decision to move, taking a running leap from your building. Your mind catches up with you just enough for you to remember that no, you don’t have any inborn powers of flight, and you had _better deploy your grappling hook right now if you want to get out of this alive_.

There’s really no plan at this point other than “get the kid and survive”, but that’s more of a goal rather than a plan. Fear curls deep within your gut, roiling like acid—although, to be fair, there’s also a very likely chance that’s just the roiling of your stomach contents from the steep dive you’re pulling off—when you realize how unprepared you are for this entire situation.

Somehow, you manage the coordination required to attach the hook to the windowsill of the opposing building. The wire pulls taught suddenly, jerking your arm painfully in its socket. You sway slightly, body twisting to the side, but gravity forcefully pulls you through your trajectory despite the strain on your arm.

At the bottom of your arc’s downswing, your other arm reaches out, scooping the small body into your side and drawing her close even as you’re bracing yourself for the impact of your landing.

There’s no finesse in the move you just pulled. Your form is atrocious and what little coordination and technique you displayed can only be described as laughable. Not to mention that calling your landing a “landing” would be too generous.

In truth, it’s a collision. There’s no easy way to put it. You collide hard and fast with the sturdy brick façade of the building and it jars you awfully, starbursts of pain flaring brilliantly all along your left side. Miraculously, your grappling hook somehow manages to hold the combined weight of you and the kid clinging to your side.

Six quick shots and the crunch of metal folding prompts you to twist your head around, ignoring the protesting twinge of your neck and shoulder muscles. The silver getaway car won’t be getting away to anywhere: not only are its tires blown out, it’s also suffered a collision, much like you did, with an unmoving object. A telephone pole, in this case.

Deadeye, across the street, holsters his revolver as Tracer saunters over to the driver’s seat and tugs open the door—it wrenches right off, actually. She holds her hand out and pulls a shaky, wide-eyed but relatively unharmed youth from the driver’s seat.

Sparrow waits off to the side, standing ever-vigilant over the other cohorts. The three robbers seem to have accepted that they won’t be getting out of this one, and they sit in disgruntled silence with their backs to the bank’s walls.

Everyone accounted for and unharmed, you feel some of your tension ease up. With a flick of your wrist, you lower yourself and your little passenger back down to the street. She continues to clutch at you, small fingers exhibiting surprising force on your arm: you won’t be surprised if you find gouges in your skin by tomorrow.

“You’re safe now,” you murmur to the child, giving her backpack an awkward one-armed pat. “I’m going to set you down—”

Her slightly loosening grip on you tightens suddenly, making you wince behind your visor at the vice grip.

“Okay then, I get the message. Take your time,” you consider shifting her to your left side, so you can give your right side a break. But considering the mass of pain just radiating all along your left, you decide against it in the end; you don’t want to strain that side any further.

Some small, distant part of your mind notes how fortunate it was that you slammed side-first into the wall and not back-first. At least your datapad will remain intact—

Except when you experimentally roll your shoulders, you can’t feel your shoulder blades press against the flat backing of said datapad. The harness on your back is empty; you must have dropped your equipment back on the roof.

You let loose an aggravated sigh, almost giving in to the urge to curse and vent, but remembering your present company just in time. You settle for rocking back and forth on your heels to expend some of the pent-up irritation simmering just below your skin. And besides, isn’t repetitive motion supposed to be soothing to children?

A flash of blue light and Tracer is zipping over to your side, “Is everything okay?”

You nod at her, meeting her gaze through your respective tinted visors, “I’m okay.” You direct your next words to the child in your arms. She’s stopped clawing her way through your arm, so you take that as a positive sign, “How are you holding up?”

“Good,” she mumbles, her gaze fixed to the concrete sidewalk below. She murmurs out something that sounds like an automatic thank you.

“I’m going to put you down now,” you tell her. “Is that okay? You can sit for a moment with Tracer here. She’s nice, I suppose.”

Your friend rolls her eyes in a somewhat over-the-top manner as you gently set the girl down on the ground. She stumbles a little bit, but her shaky legs hold.

“Hey there,” Tracer lowers herself so that she’s eye-to-eye with the child. “You’re doing great. You’re handling this well, love.”

“A real trooper,” you absentmindedly mumble an agreement, casting your eyes upward to the building you had leapt from. You check your gear, looking over your left arm to ensure that the collision with the building hadn’t damaged your grappling hook. The casing is cracked but your hook is undamaged, and you hadn’t felt any snags when you had retracted it earlier. It probably won’t fail on you mid-air.

As it turns out, you’re spared from having to test your luck. A bright glimmer catches your eye from the roof, and the next thing you know, Sparrow lands quietly beside you. In his hands he holds a familiar, rectangular shape which he offers to you.

You breathe out a sigh of relief, smile lighting up your face despite the fact that he would not be able to see your expression. You reach out to him in gratitude, “Sparrow. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Sparrow nods at you. “Although, your mood may decrease somewhat if you flip it over.”

You do as he says, and he’s right: your smile falters somewhat when you see the white webs of hairline fractures and scratches marring the datapad’s backing. It’s not destroyed, thankfully, but you’re definitely going to have to repair this one and work with your older prototypes in the meantime.

It’s more of an annoyance than a hindrance; you can’t say you’re looking forward to using all that outdated tech.

Sparrow reaches out a hand and runs his fingers over the network of white lines, tracing the chaotic patterns around the device. He inspects the damage with the lightest of touches, as if afraid to exacerbate the problem.

“It’s not too bad,” you admit. “I still need to look at everything, to see the extent of the damage, and it’s been a while since I’ve had to do something to this extent… but I’ll get it done.” It’s just going to take a large chunk of time out of your schedule. And it just so happens that time is the one thing you don’t have spares for.

“Does that mean we’ll be out of commission?” Sparrow asks, disappointed. You grimace unseen in response; seems like someone else also enjoyed the outlet for energy that anonymous civilian justice provided.

“ _You_ won’t be out of commission,” you correct with a sigh. “Nothing is stopping you from patrol, you know.”

“It just won’t be the same without you,” Sparrow admits, sounding wistful. Maybe you’re just projecting what you want to hear in his tone—it is somewhat hard to hear tone correctly through the electronic distortion of his vocalizer—but his words spark a nervous flurry of feeling deep within you.

“I’ll still be able to pick up messages, if you want me to point you in a general direction to look out for,” you reassure him. “I can still use my older datapads, but those aren’t as reliable as this one, so I won’t be able to come along to these things.”

“You know, Horizon can fix it up for you,” Tracer pipes up behind you, drawing both Sparrow’s and your attention to her. She’s holding the child’s hand now, and you’re relieved to see that the girl has visibly calmed down.

“I can do it myself,” you say stiffly, clasping the datapad closer to your abdomen.

“I’m not saying you can’t,” Tracer says gently, as if being too forward might set you off. You think that’s overmuch; your feathers sure are ruffled, but you’re more than mature enough not to go storming off in an offended huff. “Horizon has a lot of experience with these things too, you know. And he’s been tinkering around with some upgrades to your datapads, so you’ll get them back even _better_ than brand new.”

Your fingers run over the uneven texture of cracks over your datapad, a frown forming in the safety behind a dark, reflective visor.

“Plus,” Tracer cajoles almost pleadingly with you, “he’s got more time on his hands. It’ll be done faster.”

You remain silent for a while, continuing to run your fingers over the cracks. She’s raised some good points. As much as you’d like to keep your methods and tech close to you, you must admit that Horizon is good at what he does and—just as importantly—he’s quick with his work. Between your school work, your father, and the daily research you put into this endeavor, you don’t have a lot of hours to squeeze out and dedicate to repairs.

Sensing your wavering resolve, Tracer gives you her best, wide-eyed imploring expression.

You hold her gaze through your visors, even as you can feel the indignant conviction within you crumbling away like sand. Tracer just knows you too well, and it isn’t long before a sigh whooshes out of you. Your hand moves up to rub at your forehead to ease the oncoming headache pressing against your skull. However, your hand smacks soundly against your helmet: you’d forgotten you’re still wearing it.

A quickly stifled giggle from beside your friend has you sighing to yourself again; at least the girl is calm enough to find this amusing.

“Fine, I’ll let Horizon have a look at this,” you tuck the datapad underneath your arm rather than strap it in its regular place on your back. “Let’s finish up here. You guys have any twist ties?”

Sparrow responds immediately, fishing out a handful of the ties right from the compartment in his forearm, “Right here.”

“Great! We’ll get started on that,” Tracer drops her gaze down to the child by her side, “Jasmine, is it okay if I leave you with Reader here? We’ll be right back to walk you home.”

Jasmine seems about ready to nod, albeit hesitantly, but stops herself just before she does so. “I… I need to go home now… my mom will be worried.”

The three of you share a look; it only just registered in your minds that this kid probably has a curfew.

“We should get you home,” you say, “Tracer? Will you make sure she gets home safely?”

Your friend seems taken aback by this, “I—I mean sure, I can.”

“She seems more comfortable with you,” you bluntly address the questioning look in her eyes. “I’ll help Deadeye and Sparrow.”

“If you’re certain about it,” Tracer shrugs before addressing Jasmine again, “and if you don’t mind, of course! We just want to make sure you get home safely.”

“Thank you, Miss Tracer,” Jasmine murmurs. You see Tracer squeeze her hand gently, and Jasmine giving a shy, responding squeeze in turn.

They leave together, after you are reassured that Tracer’s comms are open so that she can at least hear the rest of you and stay updated. Sparrow and you head over together towards where Deadeye is lounging against a street lamp, waiting patiently for your return with one hand noticeably resting on the handle of his revolver. Completely uncoincidentally, the three robbers and their getaway driver sit quietly with their backs against the wall, staring sullenly out at the three of you.

“Bout time,” despite the words’ implied impatience, Deadeye sounds relaxed and unconcerned.

Wordlessly, you shove one of the twist ties into his hands as response. He graciously accepts and turns towards the nearest criminal, the getaway driver.

“Hands out,” he instructs.

You start with the opposite side of the lineup, with the one who looks like he might be the youngest. He meekly holds out his arms to you, flinching slightly as you step closer. You don’t bother to speak, but you do leave enough slack in his bindings so that the ties won’t insistently rub against his skin.

“Sorry,” Sparrow fluidly clasps the ties over the other two robbers’ hands. “Seems like you were just unlucky today!”

They scowl at him, not particularly amused.

“Do we have pen and paper?” Sparrow asks you and Deadeye.

“One of us still needs to notify the authorities,” you point at the cracked datapad underneath your arm, “I haven’t had the time to do so.”

“You two can figure out the note,” Deadeye nods his head at a point somewhere slightly down the street. You follow his gaze and spot a payphone booth set into the wall of a nearby building. “I can report this.”

You nod in agreement, “I can give you change for the payphone, if you need it.”

“Nah, I’ve got some quarters in here somewhere,” Deadeye sticks a hand into his pocket, jingling something around. “I’ll just skip the post-patrol snack break.”

You’re already reaching into your utility pockets to find the notepad and pen you have stashed somewhere. There’s not much use you have for it, especially considering the many functions of your datapad, but you’ve always kept them around just in case days like today happen.

As you’re jotting up a concise, point-form summary of events, you hear one of the robbers angrily spit at another, “Told you it wasn’t gonna work.”

“Shut up. My contact didn’t lie, okay? The weapons are legit.”

“Yeah, yeah they’re legit. That’s not what I’m pissed about. I’m just saying I _told_ you that Talon ain’t worth trust—”

“For fuck’s sake,” the getaway driver hisses, jerking his head in a sharp, angry gesture at Sparrow and you, “shut _up_.”

The other two do as advised—not without bitter cursing and mumbling—but the short exchange has caught your attention. You don’t give any outward indication that you’ve even heard what they’ve said, but behind the darkened glass of your visor, you frown. Something about this feels significant to you, although you can’t quite articulate why just yet.

Who is this Talon?

You silently curse yourself for the damage to your datapad as you drum your fingers impatiently against your thigh. Of all the times to be inconvenienced… seems like an unlucky day in general, not just for the robbers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True grit is posting without previewing.


	11. Unrest and understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized we hadn’t checked in with old man 76 for a while.
> 
> It’s a little bit early (not that I have a schedule anyways) because I couldn’t think of a good transition between the end of this scene and the next chapter.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented, bookmarked, kudos, subscribed, and patiently transcribed this fic onto ancient Sumerian tablets.

The next few days are restless for you. You naively try to use your old datapads, but you’d forgotten how many updates and features you and Horizon had created in the last year or so. And, if you’re being honest with yourself, the differences really grate on your nerves.

So you leave it for a few days. You keep up with the news, of course, and check in with Sparrow, Deadeye, and Tracer about their patrol routes. You listen to Councillor Lacroix repeat his same arguments to his opposition again, and you follow the ensuing heated political debates on public forums. No matter what, it never stops feeling like there’s more out there that you can be doing, and the restless energy simmering in your gut begins to roil.

Your father snaps at you one day, telling you that your endless pacing is annoying and to take it outside. It’s prime time for a walk, anyways. You take only your keys and wallet at first, intending to go for a walk and give this whole superhero business a break for an hour or so. But right before you leave your room, a nagging persistence in your mind starts to build up. With a sigh, you snag your phones—regular one and the one just for that nameless communications application—and leave the apartment.

At first you wander; there’s nowhere you really can go, not without your gear. As much as you want to suit up and grapple your way to one of your many favorite hiding places around the city, you’re in no shape to do so. A nasty bruise has formed along your left shoulder blade; in the few days right after your collision, you could barely manage to shrug yourself into a shirt.

Rolling your shoulder gingerly, the stinging sensation of pain reminds you that for the time being, you’re ground-bound.

A fresh, buttery sweet scent wafts over from the bakery a few streets down, drawing you out of your thoughts. The bright yellow brick building is tacky, but in a charming homely way. Mists Bakery, the faded sign over the window proudly advertises. You’ve heard of this place; every so often, you’d see a box of their pastries on Morrison’s dining table.

On impulse, you find yourself wandering in to sample their freshly baked cookies.

The next thing you know, you’re climbing the stairs back up to your floor with a box of hot cookies in one hand. You walk past your own apartment door, the thin walls of the apartment barely muffling the noises of the TV. There’s the sound of cheering—a sports game, perhaps. You ignore it, picking up your pace to carry you to the apartment two doors down.

Morrison greets you when he opens the door, raising an eyebrow at you when you shove the box of cookies into his arms, “You know you don’t have to bring food all the time when you come over.”

“I was out on a walk and these smelled good,” you shrug, dropping yourself into his couch. You’re careful to land on your right side. “I thought you might enjoy them.”

“Mists Bakery?” Morrison eyes the stamp on the top of the box, wandering into the kitchen to grab a plate. “It’s a bit far for a walk, especially in this weather.”

“I needed a walk to clear my head,” you explain. “And the cookies smelled good.”

“Are you cold? I’ll turn up the heat,” Morrison shuffles back into the living room, the cookies moved out of the box and onto a plain white ceramic plate. He sets the plate down on the coffee table, on your side of the table.

“Thanks,” you murmur, already hazy with fatigue and the comforting embrace of Morrison’s extra soft couch.

Morrison frowns slightly, deepening the creases around his eyes, “Kid, you look exhausted.”

“University life,” you mumble, turning your head further into the couch cushions, until it starts to muffle your voice, “lots of research. Lots of late nights.”

“No excuse for neglecting yourself like you do. Take a nap here,” Morrison firmly suggests, in a way that makes it sounds more like a statement than anything.

You’re tempted to just agree. Close your eyes and burrow into the cushiony depths and just drop unconscious for a while. Maybe you could even ask Morrison for a blanket for maximum warmth and comfort…

No, you tell yourself with a sigh. There’s still much to be done. You slowly push off from the couch, inhaling sharply when you put too much pressure on your left arm, your breath leaving you with the sharp whistling whoosh of air. “I’ll pass for now,” you reply, turning your head towards your neighbour.

He’s watching you with sharp blue eyes, narrowed in scrutiny. You sometimes forget that he was a military man; it easily slips your mind most days, between the conversations about his grade two class at school, the endless novelty mugs you buy him as a joke (and which, you’ve noticed, he’s never discarded), and the occasional time he dozes off while marking his students’ homework. But when those same eyes turn hard and calculating, as if frosted over with a thin sheen of ice, it is almost impossible to see him as anything other than a soldier during the height of the Crisis.

Your heart jackhammers in your rib cage, and you resist the urge to avert your eyes and fidget like a child in trouble with the principal. Although it’s an irrational thought, you can’t help but think for a moment that he can peer inside your thoughts and that he _knows_ your secret.

Morrison’s expression smooths out into something more neutral, but not warm or gentle, and he slowly lowers himself to sit beside you on the couch. His hand reaches out towards you, but he seems to reconsider it and his arm drops back down to his side.

He swallows heavily and takes a deep breath, steeling himself, “Has he hit you?”

For a moment, all you can do is blink at Morrison. Your mind is blank, your only thoughts are an echoing chorus of _who?_

“Has your father…” Morrison trails off awkwardly in the middle of his explanation. The ice in his eyes cracks, thawed by the warmth of embarrassment.

_Oh_.

“No, no, he hasn’t,” you hastily say, waving your hand as if you could fan away the worry creasing Morrison’s brow. “Really. I just fell off my bike on my way to school.”

Morrison is silent, brows remaining creased. Fair enough; your excuse was weak and flimsy at best. (In your defense, you were caught off guard by the question.)

In hindsight, you think that maybe you should have prepared for this; Morrison knows you better than he knows your father. You know he’s been harboring suspicions and worries for you; in ordinary circumstances, the conclusion he jumped to would be the most logical one.

It just so happens that in ordinary circumstances, most university kids don’t moonlight as superheroes in their free time.

Your silence unnerves Morrison somewhat, and he finally bridges the gap between the two of you by placing a warm, calloused hand over your shoulder, “Kid… don’t hesitate to come and find me if you need the slightest bit of help, alright?”

His gentle concern causes a slight twitch of a smile to form on your face, “Thanks.”

His response is a slight squeeze of your shoulder before he drops his hand. You reach over, taking a cookie off the plate and passing it over to Morrison. He accepts the cookie from you, and the previous conversation topic is dropped.

“Don’t you have work to do?” Morrison asks you, to which you huff and slouch further into the couch. Work is _never_ done; as a teacher, he should know.

“In a moment. I don’t want to get up just yet,” you grouse, leaving out the implicit _and I don’t want to go home right now_.

“You could leave your stuff in my apartment,” he offers, “it would be easier than carrying it back and forth.”

For a moment you consider it; your father had been home earlier these past few weeks, and you haven’t been in any mood recently to tiptoe around him. And it’s not as if you distrust Morrison, either. He’s someone you’d trust with your belongings—and that’s not something you say lightly.

But no matter how you look at it, Morrison’s place would only be a temporary set-up. You’d only be able to store your regular laptop here (just because you trust Morrison doesn’t mean that he won’t raise questions when you bring back heavy locked cases), and that means you’d _still_ have to go home for the more specialized equipment under your bed.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to clutter up your space,” you finally reply. Seems like a safe answer.

“If you’re certain about that. But the offer still stands,” he says, reluctantly letting you steer the conversation away. “If you need a place, I’m here for you.”

You don’t doubt that at all, surprisingly.

Shortly after that, you drag yourself off of Morrison’s couch so that you can fetch your laptop and at least work on something. Morrison’s attitude of tentative concern is gone by the time you return, and the two of you somehow agree without speaking to not broach the subject again.

Like a ritual, Morrison turns on the TV and flips to the local news channel as you settle yourself comfortably on his floor. You bring out your assignments, while he brings out his class’ math tests; once everything is properly set up to your satisfaction, the two of you fall into a pleasant lull of productivity while the Channel 12 reporter goes on about unrest in the local prisons.

\---

A few days later, your shoulder is finally healed up enough to be functional. Turns out that recovery is expediated by rest and reduced strain. Who would have guessed?

Although your injury is still somewhat sore—it twinges still, and you can only raise your left arm over your head if you do it slowly—you consider gearing up for a patrol. The cautious, rational part of you chastises yourself for even _thinking_ of something that would exacerbate your injury. The feverish, impatient part of you clamors for action: you ache and you itch from sitting idle.

You’re mostly recovered anyways, that impatient and feverish part of you insists. And besides, you’re not exactly looking to apprehend any criminals; you just don’t want to remain cooped up any longer.

The resolve of your cautious side crumbles rather quickly after that, and you’re quick to retrieve your gear and—unfortunately—old equipment from underneath your bed. You make sure to clasp the grappling hook over your _right_ arm instead. Its weight feels odd on your this side, like you’re just slightly unbalanced.

You adjust the harness so that your entire equipment case can be strapped in; it’s bulkier, and probably looks ridiculous, but you’re not in the mood to waste any more time picking out exactly what you need and squirrelling away all your wires into your various pockets.

You lock your bedroom door just before you leave and turn out all the lights before gently sliding your window open. You shimmy your way outside, careful not to jar your equipment case too much. Once your upper torso is outside the window, you aim and fire your grappling hook to latch onto your building’s roof. With a few experimental tugs to ensure the hook is properly secured, you inch the rest of your body out of the window and carefully slide your window closed again.

It’s a breezy day outside, just cold enough for your skin to prickle beneath your layers. You flip your wrist and the grapple line begins to retract, pulling you upwards to the roof.

Where to go to? There’s a few places scattered around the city that you’ve unofficially claimed as “your” workspace—places with high vantage points, low traffic, and are generally inaccessible.

The closest one is an old warehouse a few blocks over from your apartment, and you decide that’s good enough for today’s purposes. You’re not looking to be out for long, just long enough to do some research in a place where you didn’t have to worry about prying eyes.

There’s not a lot in the way of cover on the warehouse’s rooftop, but then again, you aren’t planning to stay long. As soon as your feet touch down on the solid ground (roof?) of the warehouse, you’re twisting around and unlatching your equipment case. You unwrap a bundle of wires, jacking them into the ports behind each datapad, and connecting the other ends to the battery pack in your case.

As you’re waiting for the datapads to boot up, you open your burner phone to access the communications app linking you to the rest of the city’s superhero scene.

It’s pretty empty, from what you can see. Seems like people have been busy recently, unlike you.

> **Ribbit:** :O Reader?
> 
> **Reader:** Yes, that is me.
> 
> **Ribbit:** how are you doing??? I heard from Sparrow you were injured in your last patrol
> 
> **Reader:** It was only a bruise. I’m fine now.
> 
> **Reader:** Your concern is appreciated.
> 
> **Horizon:** Reader! Welcome back. Are you looking for updates on your equipment?
> 
> **Horizon:** It’s almost done, I promise! I need a few days to add those features we discussed.
> 
> **Reader:** Thank you, Horizon. I appreciate your speed with this last-minute request.
> 
> **Horizon:** It’s no problem at all.
> 
> **Reader:** That’s not what I came here to ask, however.
> 
> **Ribbit:** ohhh?
> 
> **Reader:** I was wondering if anyone has heard anything about “Talon” recently.
> 
> **Ribbit:** there’s like gang violence or something right?
> 
> **Reader:** So I’ve heard. But beyond that?
> 
> **Ribbit:** sorry Re, that’s all I know :/
> 
> **Reader:** Understandable. Keep me updated if you do hear something.
> 
> **Horizon:** Have they been causing trouble for you?
> 
> **Reader:** Not directly. The last time our group was out, we took out some people who had gotten their hands on weapons-grade laser tech. One of them mentioned Talon, and coincidentally, so did that arms dealer Sparrow and I dealt with.
> 
> **Ribbit:** oh yea that does seem real shady
> 
> **Ribbit:** new arms dealer maybe….???
> 
> **Reader:** Seems like it, but we don’t know for sure that’s all they do…
> 
> **Reader:** Let me know if anything comes up.
> 
> **Horizon:** Sure thing!
> 
> **Ribbit:** gotcha

You turn off your burner phone, having nothing else you can do for the time being. Frustrated, you lean your head against the wall behind you. Your datapads have finally finished booting up, but your eyes stare blankly at the screen in front of you.

A new arms dealer on the scene wasn’t exactly an unlikely scenario. There were plenty of people in the world with some connections who were looking to make a quick, dirty buck. But from what you understand, there is already a pretty established network for this business. It’s honestly a pain in the ass. They have an annoying tendency to wriggle their way through holes in your surveillance system, circling around and engaging you in a cycle of constant vigilance.

As annoying as that network is, it’s been pretty effective in locking out competition. Individual dealers just never gain enough power or traction and are eventually either assimilated or chased out.

To be able to somehow obtain and circulate weapons-grade laser tech without being shut down by the shadowy underground? That says something to you about Talon, whoever or whatever they are.

A hand clasps itself briefly on your shoulder, nearly stopping your heart dead in your chest. You curse yourself as you whirl around to face your possible assailant—unprepared, unarmed.

Bright, neon green. Arms raised in a placating gesture.

“Sparrow?” you relax, but you don’t drop your wary posture.  

“Sorry about startling you,” he apologizes, lowering his arms to his sides.

“Give some warning next time,” you grouse, satisfied that he seems to be himself, and drop yourself back down into a kneeling position beside your equipment. “Not all of us have super-hearing or whatever it is that you’ve got going on.”

He acknowledges you with a distorted humming noise before crouching beside you and your datapads, “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

“I am resting,” you sit down instead of kneeling, making an exaggerated show of pretending to settle yourself in comfortably.

“Resting usually means _not_ working,” he tilts his head at you in a way that suggests he’s giving you a pointed look.

“I’ve rested for a week,” and what a long week it’s been. You tap away at your datapads, trying to see if the old programs can still access the various camera feeds you’ve tapped into around the city. There’s at least one warehouse that hasn’t updated any of its equipment in at least two years now; its feeds are still accessible to you. Perhaps it managed to catch something worth noting.

Sparrow watches you tap your fingers impatiently against the side of your datapad, “You probably should have taken a longer rest; isn’t your equipment with Horizon?”

“Equipment or not, I still have a lot to do,” you reply. “There’s always something that needs to be done.”

“Oh, I don’t disagree,” Sparrow elegantly folds himself into a sitting position beside you, all grace and subtle strength, “but I still stand by what I said. You should have taken a longer rest. I seem to recall _someone_ repeatedly reminding me that proper rest and good health is the fastest way to recovery.”

You grimace at the words turned around onto you, “The circumstances for you were different.”

Sparrow tilts his head in an exaggerated gesture, wordlessly prompting you for an explanation.

“For one thing, you had a broken arm. This,” you rotate your left shoulder and lift your arm just to show him that you can, “is only bruised.

“Secondly, what you do requires more action than me. Look at me. I sit around, lurking near derelict warehouses. This is basically rest.”

“Right, because grappling your way up on rooftops isn’t strenuous at all.”

You show him your grappling hook—nice and snug on your right arm.

In response, he simply crosses his arms. You assume he’s giving you a significant stare through the dark glass of his visor as well. “If you were fully recovered, you’d still be using your left arm.”

Honestly, you have nothing to say to that, so you—somewhat childishly, if we’re going with the theme of honesty—cross your arms, mirroring his pose.

The wind picks up, a cold breeze that cuts right through your outfit; you hadn’t even bothered to take a jacket with you—it would have taken too much work for you to care about to adjust your harness. Your helmet luckily keeps your face shielded, sparing you the discomfort from cold pinpricks of frozen cheeks. A shiver still threatens to undermine your vision of stubbornness, but you stiffen your muscles, suppressing it and holding it at bay.

Sparrow drops his arms, throwing his head back as he lets out a sigh, “Alright, you want to work. I understand that. But at the very least, you couldn’t have found somewhere… warmer?”

You shrug, somewhat stiffly from the efforts of keeping the shiver under control, “This place was the closest to me.”

“I’m sure we’re both tired of this back and forth arguing, so I won’t comment on that,” Sparrow pushes himself back up into a standing position, and extending a hand towards you, “but if you’re going to keep working, I do know a place that might be better.”


	12. Rest and relaxation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features Genji being a little extra. Let him flourish.
> 
> I’ve been playing Overwatch sporadically, and let me tell you…. I am so thirsty for Moira. Maybe I’ll write something for her in the future... especially after the Retribution event. I hope you are all having fun out there. I sure am.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, kudos, and brought this fic with them to weekly family dim sum!

The place that Sparrow has in mind isn’t all that far away, considering that it’s another warehouse. The two of you slip in through a locked window that Sparrow effortlessly pops open, bringing you from moderate daylight into dim lighting. Your eyes struggle to adjust, but Sparrow seems to have no problems in strolling to the opposite side of the room and flipping on a light.

Once your eyes adjust, again, you see that the warehouse is actually a workshop of some sort. The entire floor has been converted into one room, although you see faint marks along the ceiling and floors that suggest that there used to be walls sectioning off the vast floorplan into different rooms. There’s tools scattered over various tables and piles of scrap metal piled into a corner—and from what you can see, they’ve been recently used.

“Are you sure we should be here?” you ask, pacing around the room as you inspect its contents. “This place doesn’t look abandoned.”

Sparrow walks around one of the tables, picking up an object from underneath a cluttered pile of materials, “It isn’t.”

Nervously, your gaze flickers to the door.

He chuckles, “No one is going to come through and find us here.”

“How are you so sure about that?”

A sharp clinking noise, metal on metal, draws your attention back to Sparrow. He’s tapping the object he picked up earlier against the edge of the table he’s leaning against. When he’s certain that he has your attention, he raises it for you to inspect.

It’s a shuriken.

“I know no one will come by here,” and you can hear the laughter in his voice, “because this is my workshop.”

You’re too stunned to speak. You flounder for a bit, looking at Sparrow, at the shuriken, at the various tables and materials scattered around the room. When your voice comes back to you, you can’t help but ask Sparrow, “This is your workshop…? As in, this floor?”

“If we’re being specific, only the second floor—this one—is the workshop. The first floor is more of a living space. I’ve got a nice TV setup, if you’d like to see,” he sounds so _nonchalant_ about this, as if he didn’t just drop a huge information bomb on you, “but in general terms, yes, this entire building is for my use. No one else comes by here.”

You are stunned speechless again. He has an entire _warehouse_ to himself.

After a moment of you just opening and closing your mouth like a fish, unable to speak, Sparrow speaks up again. “Is something wrong?”

You shake your head no, your mind scrambling to piece together adequate phrasing to express to him just how _earth-shattering_ this reveal is, “No… nothing’s… nothing’s wrong. It’s—I mean, there’s—honestly. Honestly, it’s just a lot to take in.”

He has an entire warehouse to _himself_.

“You’re surprised.”

He has an _entire_ warehouse to himself. “Well,” you say, and your voice comes out much more steadily even though you’re still kind of reeling, “I wasn’t expecting to learn this much about you today.”

“I suppose this sort of thing doesn’t come up in casual conversation much.”

Feeling somewhat relaxed that you won’t have to worry about some unknown owner barging in and discovering the two of you, you allow yourself to wander the room. _He_ has an entire warehouse to himself. “I’m surprised you’d even let me know this much. You know it would be incredibly easy for me to search up who owns this place and work out who you are?”

“I know,” and he doesn’t even sound perturbed! “But I trust you. All this time we’ve worked together, and you haven’t tried to find out who I am.”

You have no reply ready for that. Sparrow sets down the shuriken in his hand back onto the worktable.

“You said there’s a living space downstairs,” curiosity gets the better of you, and you find yourself itching to ask, “do you live here?”

He shakes his head, “It’s only there just in case I need it. I don’t usually spend my nights here.”

You walk over to the opposite side of the table he’s leaning against, looking down at the finished shuriken and the few scattered pieces of a few being assembled. “These look like it takes time to make… I wouldn’t be surprised if you spent most of your time here.”

He nods at you when you hover your hand over the weapon, wordlessly asking for permission to inspect the item. “It took a lot of practice, but I like to think I’m adept at building these. I don’t spend all my time here, or even most of it. Class down at the university takes up most of—”

You cut him off by placing a gentle hand over his chest.

“This is a lot you’re telling me,” you warn him. “A lot of information that could be used against you.”

There’s something sarcastic in the way that Sparrow tilts his head to the side, as “no shit, Sherlock” as a simple gesture can get.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

It’s Sparrow’s turn to be silent, although you can’t tell whether it’s out of surprise or consideration to your question. When he does speak, it’s in a slow, pondering manner, “Because I consider us friends. And as I said: I trust you.”

His hand fits over yours, but he makes no move to take it off his chest, “I’m not looking for you to give me any information about yourself, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Sparrow knows you well. You feel guilty that you doubted him, even if it was just for a brief moment.

“If you’re in university too,” you say quietly, “I think we’re around the same age.”

It’s the most you can offer him on such short notice.

You hadn’t noticed that Sparrow was in any way tense, but he visibly relaxes as his shoulders shake with light laughter. Behind your own visor, you feel a tentative smile pulling at your lips. His hand over yours gives a light squeeze before he lets go, and it takes another second or so before it occurs to you that maybe you should take your hand off of him.

“And here I thought that you stayed out of the action because of your advanced age,” he teases.

His comment draws out a snort from you, “Oh please. When have I ever shown signs of advanced age? I don’t know what kind of seniors _you’ve_ been spending your time around, but the ones I’ve encountered don’t usually grapple up and down buildings on a weekday evening.”

“I seem to recall you used to have back pains.”

“That was a while ago,” you turn partially, showing Sparrow your equipment case as you reach behind you to unclasp it from your harness, “back when I used to carry this around all the time. It was absolute hell on my shoulders.”

Sparrow steps forward, helping you shrug off the bulky case. He carefully hefts it, and shakes his head, “What do you even put in here?”

“Basically everything,” you watch him gently set the case down, leaning it against the leg of the least cluttered table. “But mostly my last two datapads.”

“You still have those?” he makes a considering noise but doesn’t sound particularly surprised.

You stifle the urge to cross your arms defensively, “They’re useful. I still need them now and again, even with the upgraded one.”

“I know. It’s not like you to discard something while you still have use for it.”

“Something like that,” you mumble as you reach down and unclasp the case. Sparrow gets the signal that you’re returning to work and slips away to another table to give you space. You spare one last thought for him, wondering what he’s going to be doing, before your datapad boots up and your attention is once again fully occupied by the effort of sifting through your network for more references to this “Talon”.

Time passes like this, with you settled into the comfortable haze of your single-minded focus. Dimly, you note that Sparrow is still around—occasionally you catch a flash of bright green, hear the sound of whirring machinery. Sparrow leaves you to your own devices, and similarly, you don’t look up or question him when there’s a jarring clang of metal and a muffled curse.

Enough time passes by so that when you shift slightly, your left side flares up briefly in pain. You mutter out a curse as you slowly stretch it out, twisting back and forth to work out the sudden tension.

A gloved hand tapping politely at the edge of your table brings your attention back to Sparrow. As soon as you’ve turned around to face him, he admonishes you, “You should be taking a break.”

“Maybe later,” you automatically reply, turning back to your datapad. “I’m fine right now.”

Your traitorous stomach lets out a watery grumble.

Sparrow makes an exaggerated, smug motion of crossing his arms and leaning backwards slightly. He doesn’t hold the pose for long, dropping his arms back to his side and questioning you, “You want something to eat?”

“I’m not…” your first instinct is to decline, but Sparrow cuts you off with a gentle wave of his hand.

“Rhetorical question,” he tells you. “Good news, I’ve got food stashed around here. Bad news, it’s only instant noodles.”

“But of course,” you say, partially to yourself and partially to the open air of the warehouse, “of course. I don’t know if I would have expected anything else.”

Sparrow has more good news for you; apparently you have _options_ when it comes to instant noodles. You’ve got a whopping three choices to pick from: chicken, shrimp, or beef. You make a half-hearted attempt to decline again, but Sparrow shakes his head before you’re even halfway done your sentence.

He’s right at any rate; you hadn’t noticed how hungry you were getting. You pick one of the three options at random, and Sparrow nods to you as he descends the stairs to the lower level. In the silence that falls over the room, you can hear the faint noises as he busies himself downstairs—the sounds of running water, the click of a kettle set to boil.

At some point while you were working, Sparrow turned on the rest of the lights. Outside, the sky is slowly being taken over by the warm orange-reds of a sunset. It’s much later than you had anticipated it to be, which also explains why you’re hungrier than you expected. The hazy fog of single-minded concentration still hasn’t left you completely, making you feel a little sluggish.

You reach up to scrub your face, momentarily forgetting the helmet you’re wearing. Your hands smack uselessly against the tinted visor.

A quiet huff of laughter from the stairwell draws your attention; Sparrow’s quiet stealth strikes again. He’s holding two steaming cups of noodles in his hands, one held out towards you like an offering. You nod at him, moving to clear the datapads from the table.

He sets one of the bowls down in front of you, and you clasp your hands around it to feel the heat gently seeping into your hands through your gloves. You peel back the bowl’s covering, momentarily forgetting about the steam and getting your visor fogged up.

Sparrow is at least courteous enough this time to try and stifle his amusement. He sets his own bowl on the table.

You carefully peel off the covering, this time careful enough to keep your visor away from the wafts of rising steam. Sparrow sets a pair of chopsticks by your hand—the disposable kind, you notice.

“I don’t keep dishes around here,” he explains. “Don’t feel like washing them.”

You shake your head even as you crack apart the utensils and set them off to the side as you prepare to take off your helmet.

Or at least, that’s what you automatically try to do. Your hands are already resting on the back of your helmet, ready to loosen your gear, when your thought process catches up to you, screeching about how you’re _not alone right now_.

Sparrow’s watching you, and he definitely notices the hesitation as your hands just rest there on the underside of your helmet. “Secret identity, I know.”

He’s trusted you with a lot, leading you to his own personal quarters and providing you a sheltered place to work. All the while knowing full well that you could probably do some digging to guess at his identity. But you can’t—and shouldn’t—just treat something like your personal identity so casually, even as much as you like and trust Sparrow. You’re not sure if he knows just how much could be on the line for the both of you.

Sparrow sees the conflict in you and reaches over to you slowly, hand clasping over where yours rest on your helmet. He’s looking you in the eye, you think, or at least doing his best to look in the general vicinity of your eyes considering that the both of you are wearing tinted visors of some sort. Gently, his fingers slip under your own and tug slightly, until you get the message and let your hand fall away from your helmet.

“Secret identities,” he repeats. “You don’t need to tell me anything. I brought you here because I trust you, not because I’m looking for information in return. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

His hand falls away and he goes to take a step back. Involuntarily, you reach out before he can take that full step. When your hand clasps around his wrist, he freezes up.

“Wait,” your mind scrambles to follow. Your thought process has somewhat crashed to a screeching halt, and all you can do is just repeat, “Wait.”

He does wait, not pulling his arm out of your grasp, which you choose to interpret as a positive sign.

“Stay with me?” your request comes out hesitantly, uncertain as it hovers in the air between you.

Sparrow relaxes minutely, shifting slightly so that he’s looking at you over his shoulder. “Secret identities and all that?”

Your grip on his arm slackens, “I know. I know…”

You expect him to step away, at the very least, pull away from your loosened grasp. But he remains, standing still as if anchored to you. He lets out an exhale, not quite a sigh, an electronic warble through his vocalizer, “Back to back?”

Your posture straightens and you echo, “Back to back?”

“We won’t see each other as long as we don’t turn around,” he explains, one shoulder rising and falling in a shrug.

“That… that works,” you can’t explain the light, almost dizzying feeling coursing through you, but it’s pleasant in its own jittery way. “Back to back.”

Sparrow and you shuffle around, pulling a chair and table closer so that the two of you are able to sit, leaning slightly against each other, and eat your respective bowls of instant food. You twiddle with your chopsticks, scraping the two wooden sticks together as you stall for time, until you hear the clunk of Sparrow’s helmet being set down on his own table.

Heart hammering in your rib cage, as if you were in the middle of directing a high-stakes chase, you unclasp your own helmet and set it down to the side. Sparrow leans against you slightly more, the solid press of his back against yours giving you silent reassurance.

He’s warm, a pleasant counterpoint to the slight draft you can feel coming from the windows of the warehouse. You take your time to stir the noodles, warming your hands over the curls of steam. Unlike you, Sparrow is much less patient.

“Doesn’t that burn?” you ask out of curiosity after listening to him slurp up the probably still steaming noodles.

“No, not really,” he replies, after actually _pondering_ your words for a moment before returning to his dinner. Without the mangling of the vocalizer, his voice is a lot smoother—almost melodic—and warmer than you would have ever imagined. To your mortification, you feel a light flush rise to your face that has nothing to do with the warm steam of the instant noodles; looks like this back-to-back arrangement works out better than you had intended.

“You absolute madman,” you mutter as you poke at your own food, trying to avoid burning yourself, “it’s almost inhuman.”

“Is it?” he leans back against you, tapping the back of your head briefly with his own. “What else would it be? Omnic?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know… can they eat human food?”

“Some can,” he answers you, “not as a primary source of energy, but they can process it.”

“Interesting. I just thought most of them couldn’t.”

He shrugs, “Most of them don’t have a reason to. Taste doesn’t work quite the same way, and there’s not much energy for Omnics in human food.”

You stir your food with your chopsticks and tentatively take another—still burning, ouch!—bite. There’s a question you’re just dying to ask, to finally lay to rest all the mystery and theory over Sparrow’s origins. You’re just uncertain how welcome the question would be.

“I can almost hear you thinking,” Sparrow notes offhandedly. “Are you wondering how I know?”

“W-well,” the blunt question catches you off guard, Sparrow’s direct approach leaves you floundering.

He laughs at you, cheery and thankfully not at all suspicious, “I spend time with the local Omnic initiative.”

“Huh, okay,” Sparrow’s willingness to just casually divulge information on his life is somewhat disarming. This doesn’t really answer any substantial questions about his origins, but maybe that’s for the best, no matter how much your heart may lament it.

“Unlike them, however, I do need to eat for more than just the taste,” Sparrow continues, “that’s just how it is, being human.”

Ah. Well, that’s certainly one way to find out. You decide to stuff your face with noodles as you try to recover from just being blindsided with that bit of crucial information.

A beat of silence, then Sparrow returns to eating his noodles—at a more reasonable speed. You stir your own food with your chopsticks, sending up a rush of steam. The heat is a little more bearable, although it still stings against your cheeks. You blow gently against your food before taking a bite.

“My compliments to the chef,” you’re the one the break the silence this time.

Sparrow laughs, a deep chuckle that you can feel reverberate through your body. “You could say that I’ve had practice.”

“A skill cultivated in the remote sanctuary of the local university.”

The two of you return to eating your food in companionable silence. “I will be honest with you,” you begin slowly, in between sips of the overly salty soup, “I am a _little_ surprised to hear you’re human.”

“Fully human, too,” Sparrow supplies. “What makes you say that?”

You snort, “Most of us don’t have the skill or ability to do half the things you do. I’m fully human, and I don’t clamber my way up walls.”

“You don’t? Maybe you should try it some time,” he teases. He continues on in a more serious voice, “I cannot say more, but I have had… practice… since I was young.”

“I kind of wish I had that, or something similar,” you sigh, “without these datapads, I wouldn’t be much. If it weren’t for Tracer, I would never have been able to get to where I am. She’s the reason I am who I am today.”

“And yet, I’m sure she would say the same of you,” Sparrow leans back against you, and you lean back—half as an expression of gratitude for his comforting words, and half because you like the warm, solid weight against you. “Not just Tracer, either. Deadeye and I would also not be the same people, do the same things, if it weren’t for you.”

Despite your best efforts, the flush underneath your skin begins to grow, prickling at your cheeks. “Thank you.”

“And thank _you_ ,” Sparrow replies. “We’re really glad to have run into you.”

“Quite literally, too,” you laugh.

Over cooled, soggy noodles and savory soup, the two of you relive your earliest memories together as a team. From your overeager beginnings with Tracer, to the very first blunder that led you to meet Deadeye and Sparrow, to Sparrow’s recollections of his early days as a duo with Deadeye, all the recollections bring a fond smile to your lips.

Even as the sun has set, turning the sky dark blue-purple and the street lights outside slowly flicker to life to shed sickly pale light on the empty lots in the district, the two of you remain back-to-back in the comforts of Sparrow’s workshop.


	13. Duty and Distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Genji’s perspective again. Drama runs in the family. Genji runs from the family. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented, bookmarked, gave kudos, subscribed, or recommended this to their second cousin twice removed. Couldn’t do this without you!
> 
> A recent comment pointed out to me that Reader’s superhero team is basically all DPS—no support, no tanks. And it’s true. Originally Reader was supposed to be in a support role, but honestly? They seem more like a Defense hero.

It is so much later than what Genji expected when the two of you finally, reluctantly part ways. There’s definitely no time for him to finish the touch-ups on his armor, which was what he was intending to do today at the workshop before he had chanced across you on the rooftops.

After you leave his workshop, grappling away into the night towards wherever you tended to roost at night, Genji swaps his armor for a pair of old sweats and hoodie that he keeps around. The armor goes into a safe along with some unfinished copies of his weapon; he’ll finish them up sometime tomorrow.

From there, it’s a race home—in the dark, no less—but Genji manages it without needing to take to the rooftops.

The lights are off in the whole house when Genji creeps back, sneaking through the dark like a cat and slipping unnoticed back through his window as usual.

Or, that’s how it should have gone.

Instead, Genji finds his bedroom window firmly latched shut from the inside. Frowning, he jiggles the frame without putting too much strength into the effort. Had he forgotten to leave it unlocked when he left? It was more of a common occurrence back when he had first started his so-called “night shifts”, but from time to time he still locked himself out (not that he would tell anyone else).

Quietly, Genji makes his way down from the second floor and around the house to the front door. He hadn’t brought his keys with him—the folly of thinking he had left his window unlocked—but this also wasn’t his first time picking the lock to his own house. In a few quick movements the door pops open with no problem.

Genji gently eases the door closed behind him, hoping that it wouldn’t creak too loudly and alert his brother. At this hour Hanzo is already long since fallen asleep, but when it comes to Genji’s coming and going, Hanzo probably had a sixth sense.

The hallway lights remain off; Genji’s enhanced senses are enough for him to navigate the darkened rooms, and he doesn’t want to move around too much and give himself away. Keeping to the carpeted areas of the house, he stealthily makes his way to the stairs. The biggest hurdle is definitely going to be passing by Hanzo’s room on the way to his own. Maybe if he pretends that he’s just going to the washroom—

“So you’re back, Genji,” Hanzo’s voice, too casual, cuts through the air and sends a chill down Genji’s spine. Genji has to clamp down on the urge to flinch, feeling rather like a startled cat.

He turns around guiltily, to where Hanzo is seated in one of the living room armchairs, the one facing away from the hallway. Without looking too closely, it is a little too easy to overlook Hanzo in the dark.

Genji straightens out his back, caught in the act and not sure how to play it off, “I was out with friends.”

A disdainful snort with absolutely no amusement behind it escapes Hanzo, “And you were so focused on your studies together that you lost track of time? Again?”

There’s nothing that Genji can say in response to that—not without making Hanzo angrier—so he simply bites his tongue and gives a nonchalant shrug.

It angers Hanzo anyways. Of course. “This is _irresponsible_ of you, Genji. If Father or one of the other elders were in need of your assistance, and found you off—cavorting—”

“Cavorting, really? That one’s new,” Hanzo’s withering glare forces Genji to snap his mouth shut with an almost audible noise.

“If they were unable to find you, they would look to me to contact you. And how do you think that would reflect on us, if I were unable to even give them a vague approximation of where you have been?”

“You can always text me,” Genji is quickly shaking off the effects of being caught off guard, his skin itching in irritation as he rocks back and forth on his heels. He really doesn’t want to lose his temper, but with Hanzo snarling and spitting like an infuriated cat, it’s hard not to be affected by it as well. “We both have our phones.”

Hanzo whirls and turns on his younger brother, jabbing a finger accusingly at Genji, “You don’t think I’ve tried everything I can to reach you? And then, at the end of it all, do you know what I find out?”

Without waiting for Genji’s answer, Hanzo shows Genji the item he had been clutching in his hand the whole time. It’s Genji’s cellphone, with a whole list of missed calls and messages from Hanzo.

Genji balls his hands into fists, “How did you get that?”

“I eventually heard it vibrating in your room every time I called it,” Hanzo answers coldly. “Your door was unlocked, and your window too.”

“You were the one who locked it,” Genji’s eyes narrow at the realization. His eyes dart to his phone, wondering if he left anything that would connect Sparrow to himself on there.

“Genji,” Hanzo admonishes in a tone sharp and cold as shards of glass, “we need to have a talk.

“It seems to be a foreign concept to you, but responsibilities are real and you have a duty to serve the clan as a Shimada heir. If they found you ignoring your own family in favor of wasting your time on frivolous activities...” Hanzo takes a steadying breath. “As a Shimada, Genji, your loyalty lies first and foremost to your family.”

Genji clenches his hands and bites down on his lip to keep from snapping, but he lowers his head in a stiff nod. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, barely restrained and pounding hard enough to feel like it’s ready to burst.

“Father is happy to let you run wild and free in your time here,” Hanzo continues, “but the rest of the family is not so lenient. If they were to hear about your lax work ethic, or your aversion to your duties to the family, they will want to draw you back home and teach you about restraint and responsibility.”

Genji’s fists are balled up so tightly, his nails might be drawing blood.

“At this point, I’m tempted to let them. You know nothing of responsibility, and I am sick and tired of trying to hammer a foreign concept into your mind.”

“I’m not _asking_ you to do it,” Genji hisses, unable to hold himself back any longer. The words explode out of him with all the force and suddenness of a whip-crack. “I know, Hanzo. I get it. I’ve got things I have to do for the family. I’ve been avoiding it. Fine, so what? I have. Let that be. I’ll go to the next function I need to; tell me when it is. Just stop breathing down my neck already.”

“Genji,” Hanzo’s gritted teeth are practically audible with the amount of force he was biting down with. “It is not simply a matter of attending family functions, or going where the family sends you. It is about being accountable for yourself, being a representative of the clan wherever you go—”

For some reason, a flash of bitter, hot anger courses its way through Genji’s veins until it settles like a rock in the pit of his stomach. Something about the way Hanzo phrases it—making it very apparent that he still sees Genji as the perpetually irresponsible and reckless baby of the family despite how many years have passed— rubs Genji the wrong way.

He hates to admit it, but Hanzo’s words _sting_. Genji knows that Hanzo doesn’t really _know_ what he’s up to, and Hanzo is speaking from a very biased point of view, but knowing that isn’t enough to stem the bitter, bitter feelings. Hanzo lectures him angrily but his words are tinged with resignation, almost as if this is all just a charade he has to go through. As if he’s long given up on seeing Genji ever improve.

Genji can’t quite stop the aggravated exhalation from escaping, cutting off his brother midsentence, “Yes Hanzo, I get it. I’ll message you more often from now on, if that makes you feel better. Just. Stop breathing down my neck.”

It’s quite clear that Hanzo hasn’t finished giving Genji the entire spiel he had prepared, but Genji is in no mood to hear more about it. Turning abruptly away, Genji stalks his way upstairs without a second glance backwards. Genji wouldn’t necessarily say he slams his door closed, but there’s definitely more force than necessary involved.

Alone in his room, Genji is much too agitated to sleep. Hanzo’s ambush has left him on the defensive, effectively stamping out all the warm and pleasant feelings from earlier in the evening and replacing them with something sharper and colder. He runs his hands over his face, breathing heavily; underneath his fingertips, his skin feels flushed. He could use a glass of water, honestly, but doesn’t want to even consider going outside his room and having to confront Hanzo again.

Footsteps from outside indicate that Hanzo has finally moved from the living room and up the stairs, although he doesn’t turn right immediately into his own room as Genji expected. The footsteps carry him straight down the hall—right outside Genji’s door.

Frozen in surprise, Genji is fully prepared to hear Hanzo knock and enter, right before continuing his angry tirade from downstairs. But time stretches on, and it never comes to pass. An eternity later, Hanzo shuffles away back down the hall to his own room and leaves Genji on his own.

Another minute passes for Genji as he sits in the dark, slowly calming the angry rhythm of his heartbeat. The light in Hanzo’s room eventually goes off, plunging the hallway outside into darkness; this small change draws Genji out of the irritated roiling of his own thoughts, reminding him of just how late it is… and just how drained he feels.

Genji flips the light off and finally collapses onto his bed, not even bothering to change. Sleep overtakes him almost immediately, thankfully sparing him from having to ruminate over Hanzo’s words again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever think about what kind of hero you’d be? I’d love to know.


	14. Hearth and Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Reader. This takes place at the end of Chapter 12, actually, a little after Reader and Genji leave his workshop.
> 
> I voted today in a provincial election. The results are in, and it's. Not good.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented, gave kudos, bookmarked, and read this at 1 AM underneath a blood moon.

The light in the kitchen window is on.

“Oh—goddamn—” your cursing cuts off as you grapple your way to the top of your apartment building. Looks like your father is home and awake, unfortunately. You half hope that he hasn’t started rooting out his hoard of alcohol yet, but deep down you know what a futile, fragile hope it is to begin with.

Up on the rooftop, there’s a section of the stairwell’s wall where the paneling has lost a few screws (well, lost one screw… you had a hand in losing the other three). Pulling the metal back—and minding the sharp edges—you find a bundle of clothes tightly wrapped with plastic bags. Inside is a matching pair of sweatshirt and thinning sweatpants you hadn’t worn in a while, but would make-do for you to swap into.

The night air leaves goosebumps all along your skin when you change into more appropriate civilian clothing. Your regular hero gear is more well insulated than these old threads, but beggars can’t be choosers. Your helmet and clothing get wrapped up in the plastic bags and you carefully slide them into the space between the wall panels before pressing the thin sheet metal back into place.

The one thing you don’t store with your other gear is the equipment case with your datapads. Just because it looks like no one has discovered your little hidey hole yet doesn’t mean that it is completely hidden from the world. Leaving something as valuable as your datapads in such a public and easily accessible area—well, relatively speaking anyways—makes you just a tad bit paranoid.

You heft the black case, biting your lip as you consider it. It will definitely raise some questions, but hopefully you will be able to nonchalantly brush them off or at least divert attention away from it. It’s late; he’s probably been drinking for a while and won’t be too observant to his surroundings.

You take the stairs down to your apartment at a brisk but not quite hurried pace. You’re not exactly looking forward to confronting your father at this time—or ever, really. With any luck, he’s already fallen asleep and just forgot to turn the light off before he passed out.

Morrison’s lights are dark from what you can see in the hallway, but you have no doubt that he would still answer the door at this time at night. He’s a light sleeper.

You turn away from your neighbour’s door; as appealing as Morrison’s couch is to you, it’s time for you to suck it up and face the music. You tell yourself that it doesn’t matter; there’s a good chance your father is asleep anyways. Feels flimsy, but it gives you just enough resilience to square your shoulders and move on.

Exhaling slowly, you turn the key in your lock and gently push open the door. You have barely stepped over the threshold before you’re greeted by an irritated, hoarse voice.

“So you’re _finally_ home,” your father gripes at you. A quick scan of the living room tells you that it’s empty; he’s in the kitchen.

“Sorry,” you offer, without much feeling behind it. Deep breath in through your nose, let out quietly from your mouth. You grip your case just a little tighter and shift it behind you as best as you can before you start walking towards your room, doing your best not to look inside the kitchen when you pass by it.

From your peripheral vision, you see the haggard, slouched figure of your father bent over the sink. There’s a glass bottle of something—it doesn’t really matter what it is, as they all leave a bone-deep weariness and a sinking feeling in your gut.

You don’t even get out of view of the doorway before he slams his glass down, a rattling _crack_ that you try your best not to flinch at. Your nails dig into your palm, leaving stinging crescents despite their bluntness.

“Come in here,” he demands, voice rasping like it recently met the ugly end of the garbage disposal.

Against your better judgement, you do as he says, stepping into the kitchen. You lean against the doorway and make it very clear that you will not be budging any further from there.

“Now where the _fuck_ ,” he punctuates the expletive with a cough, “have you been?”

“School,” the lie rolls smoothly from your tongue. “Group project.”

“Bullshit,” he snaps, whipping his head to the side to face you. You glimpse red, blood-shot eyes for a moment before he turns back and hunches over the sink again. “You abandoned your home.”

Resisting the urge to sigh or kick something, you reply, “I did not. I just got busy with a few things and underestimated how long it would take me to finish.”

“Yeah? That have anything to do with your new briefcase?”

Well. You had been hoping that he wouldn’t notice it or comment on it. You make no move to bring it out from behind you, “It’s something that I’m holding onto for some friends.”

He scoffs, “Yeah right. So spill it. What’s in the box? What did you waste our fucking money on this time, huh?”

“I didn’t spend any money on it,” you grit out. Which isn’t actually a lie. Horizon had politely declined your offer of a commission at the time. “I said, I’m only holding onto it.”

“Fuck, you could at least be honest. You think I’m stupid? You think I’m too drunk to know what you’re up to?” He shakes his head at you, as if _you’re_ the disappointment of the household. “Fuck it. Least you can do is be honest with your own dad after you fucking forget the groceries.”

He reaches over and yanks open the fridge door, showing you its pitiful contents. You grimace at the paltry rations; so that’s what you had forgotten to do. The door is angrily slammed closed—something inside the fridge rattles, and you hope that nothing is broken.

“There wasn’t time today. Like I said, it took longer than I expected,” you say. Calmly, coolly. Definitely not as if your muscles aren’t stretched taut, aching to march yourself away from all of this. “I’ll get to it tomorrow. Don’t we still have—”

A derisive snort cuts through your sentence, “Cut the crap. You forgot.”

There’s nothing left for you to say, so you cross your arms.

He shakes his head, “Why do I have to do _everything_ around here? I bet that bitch is absolutely ecst— ecsta— fuck! Just jumping with joy that she didn’t get saddled with this goddamn _useless_ kid who’s got their head in the clouds, couldn’t care less about what’s goin’ on at home, only got those fucking robots on their mind.”

An angry, accusatory finger is jabbed in your direction, “Get your fuckin’ life together, kid. Get out of your mind and back home for once, why don’t ya? Stop fucking around with the robot club, you weirdo. Focus on what’s real.”

Your anger burns red hot in your chest, your heart replaced by a smouldering coal breathing smoke into your lungs. Despite that, you feel cold all over. Numb. “I haven’t been with the Robotics club since high school. It’s not—”

“So what’s _that_ in your hand?” your father is pointing at your side, and a quick glance shows that he’s definitely seen the black case. Great.

“Like I said,” and there has to be something said for the way you keep your voice neutral, your tone not betraying a hint of the pangs of frustration knotting your stomach, “I’m only holding onto these for a friend. I quit Robotics, remember?”

 _You were the one to make me quit_ , the words catch on the tip of your tongue, and you swallow them down—bitter, venomous tone and all.

Anger has lifted your fatigue, if at least momentarily. Straightening up your posture, you turn on your heel and march out of the kitchen, ignoring your father’s shout of your name. “I’ll get groceries _tomorrow_!” you shout, tossing only a half glance over your shoulder. He’s watching you, but he hasn’t moved from the sink.

You keep your posture as restrained as you can. Impeccable. Every fibre of your being feels his scrutiny burrowing into your shoulder blades as you exit the kitchen. Back straight, head high. Even, measured steps.

As soon as you pass into the darkness of the hallway and the baleful stare of your father lets up, your posture slackens just slightly. You don’t break the rhythm of your stride, but you can feel the tension seeping slowly out of your body and evaporating into the air.

You lock your bedroom door behind you before gently easing the case back to its regular resting place underneath your bed. With a sigh, you collapse onto the bed, pressing your face into your pillow. Just being home drains you of all your energy, and for an indeterminate length of time, you focus on simply existing as you watch the splotches of colours dance behind your eyelids.

When it gets a little difficult to breathe, you shift your head to the side but make no other moves to get off your bed. Honestly, you should at least get changed—it’s been quite a while since you had to use these emergency clothes, and after tonight you’ll definitely have to change your bedsheets too.

Maybe later, you tell yourself as you roll onto your back. This is a future-you problem.

The sound of a cabinet door opening and closing makes its way up from the direction of the kitchen, but you just close your eyes and try to drown it out with your thoughts. Even when you hear the unmistakable chime of a glass being set down on the counter, you refuse to give thought to it. You don’t have the energy to deal with this.

Maybe you should try and get some sleep. It’s late already, and while you don’t have school tomorrow, you’re not looking to stick around the apartment for longer than necessary. Turning over onto your side, you begin counting, futilely hoping that the repetitive pattern would lull you to sleep in record time. (It never does.)

Eight or so ticks later, you find yourself turning over on your side in mild frustration.

If you’re not going to sleep, you figure that you might as well do something useful. Getting up to check that your door is locked, you then retrieve the datapad case from underneath your bed. The clasps snap back with a satisfying click, and you get settled on your bed with your back against the wall and the datapads gently cradled in your lap. You’ve already exhausted most of your daily tasks, from keeping up with the updates of others in the community, to checking in with Lena and Deadeye about their patrol runs. You figure that you might end the night—or early morning, depending on how you see it—with some light reading to keep you on your toes.

The local news website that you bring up is mostly abuzz with more news about Councillor Lacroix—something about him resisting the push to investigate further on leads about the local supers. That man you can appreciate. You don’t believe that he will last out forever against some of the other Councillors but in the meantime, it feels nice to have someone in your metaphorical corner.

There’s also been increased movement in the supers community around the industrial part of the city. You think that Horizon may have actually mentioned this to you some time ago, something along the lines of everyone has been picking up increased activity in the area despite no immediately visible signs of increased visitors. You make a note to check your visual feeds in the area, and to update them once Horizon finishes tinkering with your datapad.

The next bit of news that catches your attention is a short one about a prison brawl. You skim over it; it involves a typical fight, a concealed weapon, and the rest is history and an obituary. The name in the obituary catches your attention; it’s the weapons dealer you’ve been trying to keep tabs on. Looks like the Talon person he was ranting around didn’t have _that_ far enough reach to keep him out of harm’s way. Now he’s little more than a dead end.

A jarring crash from the kitchen snaps you out of your thoughts, followed by a volley of expletives. Great. It better not be one of the plates again; you’re going to have to start replacing the sets if this casualty rate continues.

Your father starts yelling your name, calling for you to clean up the mess. His mess. And really, you’d be tempted to ignore him, but you also don’t want the neighbours to file a noise complaint _again_. Sighing, you stash your datapads away and drag yourself off of your bed and head down to the kitchen.

He’s somewhat mollified by your appearance and shuffles off to the living room with another glass in his hand while you fetch the dustpan. Exhaling loudly as you drop down to sweep up the shards of glass—only a mug this time, thankfully—you find yourself wondering how long it will be before you can finally gather your things and just move far, far away from this city. Or at the very least, just take a really long break from home.


	15. Libraries and Lists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to get this one out of the way so we can get to the fun chapters. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read, commented, kudos'd, bookmarked, and read this to their dog.

You wake up early the next morning feeling like a train had run over you in the night; you’d ended up sleeping so late that the actual sleep you got was closer to a nap than any true rest. Despite that—and it’s no easy feat to shake off the vague ache of sleep deprivation that seemed to permeate your bones—you still want to get out of the apartment as fast as you can.

The fridge is still mostly empty—you’ll have to do actual grocery shopping today and skip breakfast—but even if it had been full you still wouldn’t have stayed. Your father is still sleeping off the effects of his heavy night of drinking and you’re in no mood to stay for the inevitable whining and griping. You pour a glass of water for him and dig out the aspirin from the medicine cabinet for him, but that’s all you’ll do for him.

Before you leave the building for the day, you remember to swap your clothing back from its hiding place on the roof. The sky is still dark when you make your way back onto the rooftop; there’s the barest of orange creeping over the skyline when you haul yourself out of the stairwell. You quickly ferret out the gap in the paneling; the old sweatpants and shirt get folded up and tucked back into the cavity, and your getup is gently transferred out.

When you re-enter the apartment, your father is sill asleep. Quiet snores can be heard from his bedroom, barely audible through the thin walls. There’s something about early mornings that seem to mute all noise—whether or not it was perceived or actual didn’t matter, but the relative quietness in the mornings did help acclimate you into becoming a morning person.

Somewhat regretfully, you leave the black case of your old datapads behind. Today, you’ve decided to head to the library for work… some superhero work, some school work. A black case of off-market technology is bound to raise questions, even though you don’t expect to see many (awake) people at this time of the day. You lock the bedroom door behind you, the vehement and angry words of your father fresh in your mind when you thought about last night.

The farther you get from the apartment, the less constricted your chest feels. By the time you arrive at your library, you’re breathing normally again. The doors to the library are just being opened, and you check your watch out of habit. 9:00 on the dot. Impeccable timing.

“Keener,” the kid—who really isn’t that much younger than you, admittedly—mutters under his breath as you march through the doorway. You don’t say anything, but you can’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes. Let the kid learn on his own that apathy is a tired cliché.

You settle with your regular laptop over by the math and physics section on the second floor; it’s the least used section of your library in your experience. You’re not even certain that the staff have ever set foot in this area, either.

On your laptop, you create two desktops—one for school work and one for your research. Never let it be said that you didn’t understand the importance of organization and separation! As much as you want to dive right into digging deep on what your network knows about Talon, you have pressing matters to attend to, such as an assignment due Tuesday. You should really finish up on that.

The day creeps by slowly, with you sporadically switching between doing your school work and browsing online for any mentions of Talon. The news sites only have a brief mention of Talon—you don’t really catch much that references Talon, aside from a few offhand remarks regarding the recently deceased arms dealer in prison and the increase in gang activity credited to Talon in the northern parts of the city. Even then, the site that mentions it happens to be _News Now!_ which is not exactly what you would call your most reputable source by a long shot.

However, while you’re taking a break from research—both school and superhero related—your burner phone lights up with a direct message.

 

> **Ribbit:** Rea, rea, you gotta check this out
> 
> **Reader:** What is it?
> 
> **Ribbit:** D.Va and I found this
> 
> **Ribbit:** [Ribbit has sent 9 files]
> 
> **Reader:** ?
> 
> **Ribbit:** screenshots. the actual website got taken down

You’re immediately intrigued by the almost cryptic message Ribbit sent and you’re itching to open the files right then and there. No better place to resume your covert superhero lifestyle than in line to purchase a strawberry pastry, right?

The man behind you in line coughs to get your attention, nodding at the cashier waving you over. You apologize to him, slipping the phone back into your pocket. It sits heavy like a stone in your back pocket, and you remain incredibly conscious of the slight heat it gives off. You do your best not to fidget too noticeably while the cashier counts out your change and waves you off with a thin-lipped smile.

You don’t quite jog your way back to the library, but it does get mighty close. Although the activity in the library has picked up, your seat in the math/physics section is still unoccupied (you honestly wouldn’t be surprised if your seat had somehow managed to accumulate a thin layer of dust in the thirty minutes you were gone).

With the desk hiding your phone—it almost feels like you’re back in high school sneaking glances at your text messages—you are finally able to check Ribbit’s message.

At first glance, it looks like someone’s _heavily_ monetized personal blog. A bright, garish ad telling you about all the hot single girls in your area takes up half the page in the first screenshot, and a brief scan of the other screenshots tells you that most are also like that. _“New Underground Masterminds Plotting Our Ultimate Demise???”_ declares the title, written by an unnamed someone who insists on being called The Seer. Oh boy, that’s how you know you’re dealing with a professional—just in case all the ads telling you _“Don’t let your boyfriend play this game!!”_ hadn’t tipped you off.

The ads are a nuisance, but you manage to scan the page and understand the gist of the “enlightenment” The Seer promises to deliver to you. (This is the worst enlightenment you’ve ever encountered, and you’d like a refund.) The Seer claims that a shadowy cultist group called Talon has been targeting the Omnic residential areas, planning for what you assume is mass genocide, and then using the resulting Omnic corpses to house and control one of the god programs. The Seer warns you to keep clear of the Talon group, as they aren’t afraid to make a live sacrifice out of you and have already summoned hordes of demons to their beck and call. The Seer warns you to avoid at all costs the Talon sigil—an accompanying and somewhat blurry photo shows you a patch with some sort of sigil in the shape of a T.

Alright then.

Omnic genocide? It’s not the first time racists have made a move in the city, and definitely not the first time someone has made threats. It’s probably time to increase patrols in the predominant Omnic residential areas, just to be safe.

> **Reader:** Thanks for the information, Ribbit.
> 
> **Reader:** How reputable do you think the claims are?
> 
> **Ribbit:** normally i’d say like….. not at all… but I found this site maybe two days ago? and it’s been inactive for months but yesterday when I checked it again it was just gone
> 
> **Reader:** Hmm.
> 
> **Ribbit:** feels fishy
> 
> **Reader:** Hmm… Very.

You sit back in your chair and contemplate what you’ve seen. Whatever Talon is, they seem to have incredible reach to be able to obtain weapons-grade laser tech. But aside from a badly executed robbery and a delusional weapons dealer, you really have not seen mentions of them at all. And yet the weapons dealer seemed absolutely certain that his contacts in Talon would have absolute power to get him out. Was that confidence grossly misplaced, or him just wanting to believe himself to be more important than he was?

Without more information, there’s not much you can do. Caution is one thing, but The Seer levels of paranoia is another thing entirely.

You lay your head down onto the surface of the table, ignoring the discomfort of the scratchy wood grain. It’s almost definitely going to leave a mark on your forehead. You can’t find it in you to care; right now you feel overworked. Burnt out.

There’s nothing you can do, you remind yourself again. Not with your limited resources, as frustrating as it is to admit.

Trying not to feel too defeated, you go back to Channel 12’s news website—they have a feature piece out on Gerard Lacroix that you’ve been meaning to read. In preparation for the upcoming re-elections, the website had been doing features on all the candidates. Antonio Bartalotti, “the conservative businessman”, was last week’s piece.

The bulk of the article focused on Lacroix’s pushback on the Minister of Safety’s attempts to register augments and inherents. Due to his adamant and surprisingly uncompromising stance against it, he’s received criticism from both supporters and opposers alike; even his supporters argue that while inherents should be off the hook from registration, augments made the choice to give themselves various abilities and were fair game for registration. You’d been following him for a while, so none of this information is news to you, but that doesn’t stop you from being unsettled.

There have always been people against Lacroix from the very beginning when he first voiced his stance on the matter. But over the years, especially as the number of inherents and augments grew, the backlash against Lacroix has been growing. You have no delusions that Lacroix can stand firm forever and that eventually he will have to concede to _something_ or risk losing all of his support. You can’t help but feel like you’re sitting above a time bomb buried _deep_ within the earth with each passing day.

Even now, his supporters are slowly calling the movement to refuse registration a “menace”.

You close the article once you reach the end, unable to keep looking at it once you’re done with it. Once again, you feel acutely aware that some sort of countdown has been set into place.

Quiet conversation, but getting louder, draws your focus outward again. The people carrying on the conversation seem to be making a beeline to the back of the library where you are sitting. When they turn around the corner of the last bookshelf hiding your table from view, you see that it’s actually two people: one human, one omnic. You recognize the human immediately as someone who goes to your school—bright green hair is hard to forget.

“Oh,” Mr. Green Hair says, surprised as if he hadn’t expected to see anyone here. Which is fair; you come to this section of the library because it is the least frequented part. And while you’d never seen anyone else around in the times you’ve been here, you are sure that you aren’t the only person to have used it. Mr. Green Hair motions to the two seats across from you, “Are these seats taken?”

You shake your head, “No. You can have this entire table, actually. I was just getting ready to leave.”

They thank you and settle into their seats as you pack away your laptop. It’s about time you left anyways; you still have groceries to buy.


	16. Life and Leisure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so you know this fic started because I wanted a superhero slice of life fic? There’s been less slice, more life (that doesn’t even make sense) and you know what, I kind of wanted some light-hearted moments so here you go. More plot will come in the next chapter.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who bookmarked, gave kudos, commented, and/or juggled three vases full of Jell-o.

_What are you doing here?_ You have no answer to your question as you walk past the engineering news bulletin board for the fifteenth—sixteenth? You’ve literally lost track—time. You have things to do. There’s no time for you to pace back and forth aimlessly in this nondescript hallway in a department you’re not even a part of.

“Either leave or go in,” you mutter to the water fountain off to the side. “Stop debating. This is humiliating.”

Despite your own advice, you begin pacing again, furtively checking Room 2106 when you think that no one is looking. In all honesty, you’re making yourself feel a little silly. It’s paranoid. No one is watching you. You’re being too jumpy—

The door to Room 2106 opens and a girl with long auburn hair sticks her head out of the doorway and smiles at you, “You know, you’re welcome to come in. We’re open to all students.”

Startled into a speechless state, you are only capable of stammering out short syllables, “I was—I mean, I would but I’m… I’m just waiting… for—for a friend.”

“Oh,” her smile falters for a bit but it comes back just as sunny, “well, you’re always welcome to come in and wait for them in here!”

“No that’s… that’s okay,” you say weakly. “I’ll just come back later.”

“Suit yourself,” she waves at you and you hesitantly wave back before you finally turn around and head for the exit.

Your face is aflame as you descend the stairs. Why did you have to go and make a fool of yourself?

Before you can dedicate more time in your life to berating yourself, your phone—your actual phone, not the burner phone—buzzes in quick succession. You have an inkling of who it is before you even fish out the device; you only have one friend who types and sends messages like the keyboard is on fire.

> **Lena:** heeeey!
> 
> **Lena:** heeeey, are you gonna be at the library??
> 
> **Lena:** I can save us a seat
> 
> **Lena:** 10 th floor or 8th floor?
> 
> **Lena:** hahaha too late
> 
> **Lena:** c’mon and get your butt to the 8 th floor
> 
> **Lena:** I’m in the back
> 
> **You:** Slow down. Hold your horses. Cool your jets. Etc etc. I’m coming.

True to her word, Lena is already settled in on the 8th floor of the campus library, occupying one of the smaller tables in the back corner of the room. Her bag is placed on the seat beside her, reserving your place. She doesn’t notice you immediately when you approach, too absorbed in typing away on her laptop _and_ her phone.

“Hey,” you greet, as soon as you’re within earshot.

She calls your name happily, practically bolting out of her chair to give you a quick hug. You manage to pat her on the back once before she’s pulling you down into your seat, quickly whisking her bag away.

“You want to do the practice quizzes for Wednesday?” you ask as you pull out your laptop.

“Sure, sure, we can do that. But before we do…” Lena glances furtively at the other tables in your area. It’s pretty empty for this hour, and most people around are focused on their work, headphones on and oblivious to the world. Either way, Lena drops her volume even lower as she leans in to you, “Do you know what day it is?”

A smile is creeping over your face even as you tell her. Her grin grows ever wider, “It’s our anniversary!”

It, indeed, is your team’s anniversary. The first time that the four of you had—successfully—teamed up and taken down some wayward robbers. Never let it be said that you’ve forgotten your humble roots.

“We still have patrols to do,” you remind her, but Lena’s grin is much too contagious and you’re smiling too wide for it to sound as serious as you want it to. “And you have one more class to go to.”

Lena huffs, blowing a lock of hair away from her face, “That one’s easy. It wouldn’t hurt if I—”

You shake your head, cutting her off, “No. It’s fine, you know. We can wait.”

She looks like she’s still going to protest.

“We will wait,” you say as firmly as you can. You nudge her laptop, “And we’ve got a test on Wednesday, don’t forget.”

Lena reluctantly accepts your topic change, “A real shame that the world can’t be put on hold.”

“A real shame,” you agree.

…

You’re perched on the ledge of a building, legs dangling over the edge, waiting for your teammates to finish up their patrols. You give in to the urge to check the time again, even though it can’t have been more than three minutes since you last looked. Your eyes continuously scan the streets below you, although it’s probably a futile effort: it’s already dark out, and the faint orange glow of the street lamps is a rather poor choice of lighting.

There’s a soft thud as someone lands on the roof a little distance behind you. They don’t speak at first, but the soft tread of their footsteps is distinct and immediately recognizable to you and you’re scrambling to your feet before you even consciously decide to do so. “Sparrow!”

Sparrow gives you that silent, silly little salute.

You scan the streets below for one last sign of your other teammates before you make your way over to the green superhero. “I thought you and Deadeye finished patrols together?”

“We did,” and even through his suit’s voice distortion you recognize a hint of a smile in his words. “Unfortunately, he couldn’t… keep up.”

You tsk, but there’s no real heat behind it and you find yourself smiling anyways—there’s nothing that can bring down your mood right now. “Cheeky today, aren’t you, Sparrow? You’re just looking for me to reprimand you.”

“If that’s what you mean by ‘eager to see you’,” Sparrow takes a step closer to you so that you’re almost chest-to-chest, “then I’m guilty as charged.”

Your face blooms with warmth, and once again you’re incredibly thankful that you and Tracer went for tinted helmets. Without thinking, your hand comes up and rests on his bicep, although you can’t for the life of you figure out if you want to push him away or pull him ever so slightly closer.

“Happy Anniversary,” Sparrow says, tone still carrying that hint of insufferable cheekiness.

A laugh startles out of you, “Happy Anniversary to you too, Sparrow. Don’t tell me you ditched Deadeye just so you could say it to me in person before he did.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I had wanted to be the first one to tell you that in person?” Sparrow’s hand comes up and covers your hand that you still have placed on his arm—you’re a little startled to realize that you hadn’t removed it.

“I’m afraid you’re a little late, then. Tracer was the first,” you shrugged as Sparrow theatrically mimed heartbreak. “You’re fast, but Tracer is faster.”

Someone loudly shouting Sparrow and your callsign from below grabs both of your attention before Sparrow can form a response. It seems like the rest of the team has finally caught up. You peek over the edge of the roof to see Deadeye and Tracer waving up at you, “Come on down slowpokes! I’m getting real hungry!”

“Coming, coming,” you laugh, aiming your grappling hook at the edge of the roof, intent on grappling your way down to the street. Sparrow’s arm comes up though, indicating for you not to fire. “Sparrow?”

Sparrow tilts his head to the side, and somehow you just _know_ that he winked at you under it. He leans over the edge of the roof and calls down, “We’ll race you.”

“Wait a minute,” both you and Deadeye chime in at the same time.

You can’t see her expression, but there’s no mistaking the glee in Tracer’s voice as she gladly accepts, “You’re on, Sparrow!”

Without another warning, the two of them bolt in a vague eastward direction. Tracer zips effortlessly through the streets, easily dodging traffic and pedestrians. Sparrow leaps from rooftop to rooftop with his characteristic easy grace and agility. You can’t stop the sigh from escaping, but you find that your smile feels permanently etched onto your face as you ready and aim your grappling hook to follow in Sparrow’s path.

The only one who’s a little less amused by Sparrow and Tracer’s antics is Deadeye. As you’re swinging yourself off of the roof (and coincidentally over his head), you hear him mutter, “Freaking mobility.” There’s no bite to his words, however, and a split second later he’s jogging to keep pace with you.

…

There’s a diner located in the corner of a small plaza—the parking is absolutely _dismal_ —that’s been there since the fifties, according to the little “About Us” section on their menu. You don’t come to this part of the city often, so you don’t have many opinions of other establishments in the area, but you’d consider this one of your favorite spots to get some typical comfort foods at a decent price.

It also helps that a wave of fond nostalgia washes over you as soon as you push open the doors.

Amelia, the hostess and the daughter of the owner, beams at the four of you, “We were wondering when y’all would show up!”

“It’s not too late for you, is it?” you ask.

She shakes her head, ponytail tossing from side to side, as she picks up four menus and waves for all of you to follow her. She seats all of you in a booth way at the back of the diner, close to the kitchen doors. It’s almost closing time, and only about two tables have patrons seated at them. One of them startles upon seeing the four of you pass by, and curious eyes follow your group all the way to your seats. They avert their gaze quickly when they catch you angling your head in their direction, however.

The four of you glance at the menus, but decision making goes by quickly considering that you’ve all been getting the same thing from this place for years. Amelia takes your orders and sends it off to the kitchen, leaving the four of you alone in the dimmed lighting.

“Can you believe it?” Tracer is grinning behind her helmet’s visor. “Four years!”

“I think we could be considered veterans of the trade at this point,” Deadeye adds, tracing a line into the condensation beading on his glass of water.

Sparrow tilts his head to the side, “I think we’re just getting started.”

“Oh no, I’m not saying we’re retiring anytime soon,” Deadeye takes a careful sip of his water, mindful of keeping his bandana from falling. “I’m just saying, we’ve been at this for a while.”

“Deadeye is right,” you nod at the marksman, “the average… career life of a super in this city is about 3.2 years. We’re above average.”

“Congratulations to us!” Tracer chimes in. The three of you chorus a similar sentiment back.

Amelia and her father, Ricky, bring your orders out of the kitchen as well as a small cake from their dessert selection with the words “Happy Anniversary, Heroes!” written on it in bright red icing. You all thank them profusely, with Ricky waving it all off with a hearty laugh and a promise to get a picture of your team to add to the wall.

There’s an old Polaroid camera stored underneath the takeout counter, and Amelia retrieves it as you adjust yourselves in your seats to pose appropriately. “Smile!” Amelia chirps, and you find yourself grinning underneath your visor even though you know that there’s no way that it will be caught on camera. Still, it will be a nice thought when you see the pictures.

“Beautiful!” Ricky proclaims as he shows you the developing photograph. He bids you all to enjoy yourselves and a chorus of gratitude follows him all the way to the corkboard at the front of the diner, where he tacks up your photo.

As per tradition, Tracer and you head to the bathroom to swap your helmets for cheap dollar store masks that still conceal your identities but allow you to eat. Sparrow and Deadeye wait patiently—more or less—for your return, their food sitting (mostly) untouched on their plates. As soon as you and Tracer seat yourselves back into the booth it’s as if some unseen signal has been given and the four of you simultaneously dig into your orders.

You don’t know when the other patrons leave, but soon the diner is empty, leaving Amelia free to sit at the table beside your booth and chat. The four of you alternate summarizing some of your more memorable escapades, and Amelia takes interest in asking about that fight with Roadhog and Junkrat—she’s particularly curious about Sparrow, wondering how badly he was injured in the fight.

“Nothing I couldn’t walk away from,” Sparrow tells her. He pats the side that Roadhog’s hook had dug into, showing you all that there’s not even a seam in the repaired suit. “Good as new.”

The rest of them all laugh, but your heart twinges and you cover up your silence by taking a bite of your food. Sometimes you don’t think that any of you are fully aware and appreciative of the very real risk of danger in your line of work. It’s nice to be like this, sitting and talking with these people who you genuinely would consider old friends (despite most of them not knowing you outside of being a hero). But at the same time, you know there’s going to be more of those moments—of heart-stopping sheer terror—like when you _saw_ Roadhog’s hook just sink into Sparrow’s armor. Your stomach twists at the memory, and your chewing slows down.

A warm, solid weight pressed to your side draws you out of your thoughts. It’s Tracer, leaning against your shoulder as she recounts the time she and Deadeye stopped a group of robbers who were actually excited to be apprehended by a group of supers. Her hand falls over yours, giving it a comforting squeeze, without breaking off from making Amelia laugh about how one of the robbers had even asked them for an autograph.

Warmth blossoms in your chest and you squeeze her hand back in gratitude.

Slowly, the good mood of your team’s anniversary returns to you. You’re back to laughing and sharing memories. Amelia and Richard thank the four of you again, and you thank them in return for their kindness (and the cake).

As you trail out of the diner, bloated on good food and good company, you pause in front of the corkboard. Your picture from tonight is tacked up near the centre of the board—the four of you presumably all smiling at the camera. The photo is grouped with three other photos; the poses and positioning of the four people in the photos are different, but it’s unmistakably the same people in each.

“Look, it’s my old costume,” Sparrow says from behind you, reaching up and brushing the oldest photo. “My armor used to be so _dull_.”

“And I had yet to discover a coherent color scheme,” you laugh, fondly brushing your finger over the photo. You’d forgotten how mismatched your old suit was—put together almost on a whim from various pieces you’d found in thrift stores.

“On the other hand, I miss that color scheme,” Deadeye nods at his old costume, and all of you give exaggerated groans of disbelief. “Hey, what can I say? The yellow was unique.”

Your group lapses into silence as you look over the pictures taken through the years. “We’ve come a long way,” you muse, absentmindedly adding, “and I’m so proud of you guys.”

Which must have been the signal for something, because they immediately reach out to you, drawing you in for one big group hug. You splutter, caught off-guard, but you don’t protest the embrace. You lean your head on Deadeye’s shoulder, feeling the warmth in your chest spread through your bloodstream to the rest of your body.

It’s probably strange to some people that you can feel so connected to, so loved by these people whose true names you will never even know. You certainly didn’t expect this when you first started patrolling with Tracer. And yet, you know without a doubt this isn’t something you’d trade for anything.

You pat someone’s back—from the feeling of armor plating, it’s Sparrow—and hope that it sufficiently conveys the outpouring of love you can feel.


	17. Tech and Testing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader gets a buff. An absolute rework. November is nearly here, which means I’ll be regularly working on my NaNoWriMo project, but afterwards I’m aiming to update this sucker monthly.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read, commented, gave kudos, bookmarked, or stay hydrated.

The days crawl by in a blur as the regular school term starts winding down and exam season starts winding up. Between the patrols and exams, you’ve got your plate more or less full, especially considering that you’re slowly looking into becoming a more active participant in your team’s patrols. Rumors on the street were hinting at the retirement of Paragon—a member of the super community for as long as you can remember.

At home, your father has been coming back from work earlier and in a fouler mood. You grit your teeth and ignore it to the best of your abilities, but it wears on you over time as his complaints slowly dig underneath your skin. To placate your father’s grumblings about your “massive amounts of free time”, you make a few half-hearted inquiries for various jobs on campus. The library is no longer hiring, which is a shame, but you learn from your friend Josephine that the coffee shops around campus might be looking for new hires in the next school term. You ask her to let you know if they do end up hiring, and that’s about the extent of the effort you want to expend.

Relief comes to you one day in the form of a simple message to your burner phone.

> **Horizon:** I’ve finished the proposed upgrades we talked about.

It’s finally done. You were really starting to become sick of hauling around your older, blockier datapads. You’re no doctor, but you can’t imagine that their weight is good for your back.

> **Reader:** That’s great news! Thank you, Horizon.
> 
> **Horizon:** It’s my pleasure. However, I think it might be better this time if you also came to pick it up rather than just Tracer.
> 
> **Reader:** If you think so.
> 
> **Horizon:** There’s a few upgrades that I think should be demonstrated in person.

You almost politely decline out of reflex, but something makes you pause with your fingers just hovering over the keypad. A few seconds tick by while you chew contemplatively on your lower lip—you’ve already gone through countless upgrades to your gear without needing an in-person demonstration, and even if these upgrades are on the more complex side, a few days of testing will get you comfortable enough in no time.

On the other hand, Horizon has never asked—well, heavily implied—for your presence before. Knowing what you know about him (admittedly not that much), you can always swear by the quality and thoroughness of his work. If he says that he wants you there for a demonstration, you trust there’s a good reason why.

> **Reader:** Looking forward to it. Tracer will come along to show me the way, if you don’t mind.
> 
> **Horizon:** Let me know when you want to see them.
> 
> **Horizon:** Thank you.

Horizon’s thanks—sincere and heart-felt even over text messaging—surprises you somewhat. Really, you think _you_ should be the one to thank _him_ for all the help he’s given you and the rest of the super community throughout the years, ever since Lena first introduced him way back.

On the other hand, this in-person meet-up is not something you do… ever, really. Call it nerves, call it caution, but you want to limit the chances of someone becoming familiar enough with you that they can ID you.

You think that perhaps Horizon—somewhat of a hermit himself—understands this about you. Understands that it’s not an easy step for _either_ of you to take, to allow a stranger (albeit a professional one) over the clearly drawn lines and boundaries established for years.

Still using the burner phone, you send a text off to your long-time friend.

> **Reader:** Are you busy next week by any chance? Horizon’s finished with my upgrades and wants me there for a live demonstration.
> 
> **Tracer:** :OOO is that so?
> 
> **Tracer:** you betcha I can getcha there!
> 
> **Tracer:** so, what time are you thinking of?

…

The week rolls by in a blur; you’re too impatient to metaphorically stop and smell the roses. The plan is set for a Wednesday, after yours and Lena’s patrols are done, and on a day that you’re relatively certain your father will be working late.

Lena is already waiting for you at the meet-up point when you arrive after your patrols. She’s rocking back and forth on her heels rather than outright pacing, which means that at least she hasn’t been waiting for too long. She nods at you when she sees you approach, your empty case strapped carefully to your back.

Wordlessly, Lena takes the lead as soon as you catch up to her. She leads you through the streets, directly headed towards an area you know to be filled with abandoned lots and demolished buildings. The way there is practically devoid of human life, save for the occasional vagrant setting up near a grate in the ground, taking advantage of what heat was wafting out of the vents from the subway. Lena is oddly silent for the walk; the few glances you throw her way go unnoticed, and her stare looks slightly unfocused as she thinks.

You don’t say anything, either. Whatever it is she’s trying to bring up, you’ll give her the time she needs to sort it out in her head first.

“So, there’s a few things that we need to talk about before we visit Horizon,” Lena finally says after almost a full five minutes of silence.

You nod at her to continue, letting her know that she has your full attention.

“You know how Horizon’s a bit of a hermit? Well, it’s because… hmm… well, let’s just put it this way. There’s good reason for it—oh, it makes him sound shady, doesn’t it?”

“I figured he has his reasons for being a recluse,” you shrug. “For privacy, I always assumed. Either that, or he just has a lot of time on his hands.” _And money._

“That’s part of it,” Lena still looks like she’s trying to formulate the words properly in her head. “He’s a great guy, okay?”

You lay a hand gently on her arm, stilling the babble of words, “I know. I trust you both on this.”

Lena pats your hand, “It’s just… when you see him, you’ll understand. I guess—I don’t know?—try not to be too startled?”

Ah, so she was worried about your reaction to seeing Horizon for the first time. Understandable, since from what you gather, she’s also quite close to Horizon and has known him for a long time outside of her activities in the super community. You’ve never pressed for details.

“I’ll keep it neutral,” you promise your friend. She squeezes your hand in a grateful gesture.

Lena leads you to a warehouse that’s only remarkable in how unremarkable it is. Like most of the buildings in the area, it looks like it’s been boarded up for a while and hasn’t been looked after ever since. You note that one of the top floor windows is busted out, and from what you see of the interior, it’s dark, empty, and cavernous.

“We’re here!” Lena announces excitedly.

“I don’t doubt you, but…” you crane your neck more, trying to see a bit further inside the building. “It looks like no one’s home.”

“That’s sort of the point,” Lena winks at you through her visor as she punches in a series of numbers on the seemingly powered-off keypad at the front gate. The keypad blinks to life, flashing a brief “OPEN” on its screen before it powers down into its original unassuming state.

The two of you enter the warehouse, making sure to lock the gate behind you. You’re not really sure what to expect when you step inside the warehouse, but really, it’s a little underwhelming in the end. It’s about as remarkable inside as it is outside, and just as neglected.

Lena makes a beeline right for the elevator at the back of the warehouse. You continue to follow her wordlessly, silently taking in your surroundings. If you had stumbled across this place on your own, you probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but the more you look, the more you’re realizing the slightly dilapidated building is a carefully constructed façade; though the concrete beneath your boots are weathered and cracked, there’s no dust at all in this “abandoned” building.

The elevator is much like the keypad outside—at first glance, it looks like it’s long since fallen into disrepair. Lena jabs the down arrow five times in quick succession, and then the up arrow once. The elevator light flickers on and the doors open without the slightest protest.

You feel your respect for Horizon—as well as your eyebrows—just climb a few notches.

Lena rocks on her heels inside the elevator, fizzing with barely contained excitement. She glances to you, and you give her a thumbs-up in reassurance.

The elevator descends smoothly. For a second you’re caught off guard as the elevator picks up more speed than you would have expected for what you assumed was a one floor trip to the basement. Looks like Horizon’s base was much deeper underground. This was getting a bit ludicrous, even considering the fact that Horizon might be a millionaire genius after all.

You have no idea what to expect when the doors finally open and reveal Horizon’s hideaway, but it certainly isn’t the clean, spacious, lab-like facility that you step into. Your jaw falls open when you see the entire _wall_ of monitors, each buzzing with a different news station.

Transfixed, you find yourself taking an involuntary step towards it. Something giddy and excited bubbles up in your chest, barely able to be contained. You take a deep breath as your lips stretch out into a wide, unseen grin.

Your eyes are drawn away by a brief flash of color in your peripheral vision; you find yourself looking at what seems to be a worktable, a mess of colorful wires strewn about it. A plate piled with banana peels sits on the edge of the table. In the corner, a plush pile of cushions—somewhat neglected—acts as a makeshift lounge.

The worktable reminds you of your reason for being here today and the plate of bananas and cushions remind you that you’re certainly not here to gawk at some eccentric genius’ living space. With some difficulty, you reign in your giddiness and turn towards Lena.

Your friend has a wide, face-splitting grin. “Well?”

“Well what?” you can’t help but grin back at her, even though she shouldn’t be able to see your expression.

“Isn’t it cool?” she slings an arm around your shoulders. “I figured you’d be over the moon to see a place like this!”

You pretend to ponder her words, humming exaggeratedly, “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, but I _suppose_ you could say that it is pretty cool.”

A polite cough from somewhere behind you sends the both of you whirling. Lena’s face immediately lights up even more when she sees who it is, “W—Horizon!”

You, on the other hand, experience your second total shock of the day. To be fair, says a voice from the back of your mind, there really isn’t much you _could_ have done to prepare you to come (more or less) face to face with a gorilla in a space suit.

Suddenly your earlier conversation with Lena about preparing yourself for the meeting takes on a different meaning and makes a little bit more sense.

“You must be Reader,” the gorilla—Horizon, you remind yourself—addresses you in a smooth, quiet voice, bringing your third shock of the day. He hesitantly holds his hand out to you, “This must, um, come as quite a surprise.”

You’re quiet for a heartbeat, but manage to recover much faster this time. You clasp his hand in both of yours—his hands absolutely dwarfs yours—and you give it a quick shake. “I suppose it answers the question of why we never see you around.”

Some of the tension seems to leave him when you say that, and he chuckles a bit, “Now you know.”

Lena flashes you a thumbs-up from behind Horizon.

Horizon turns around, beckoning the two of you to follow him towards his work station. He flicks on a switch as he goes and one of the hanging lights over the table sputters to life, illuminating him as he gently sets a storage container down. You take a step closer as he reaches inside and fishes out your datapad.

Horizon offers it out towards you to take, and you immediately accept it, marveling over how new it looks. There’s nothing that would indicate it hadn’t survived a fall off a sizeable building.

“Open it,” Horizon prompts you. “I’ve tweaked it a little bit, so let me know if you still have those issues with memory. If you keep encountering errors with tracking and saving configurations, then you’ll have to send it back for more optimization, but I don’t think it will be a problem anymore.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, opening up a few of the programs Horizon had designed for you. It’s a bit of a futile effort; you’re far enough underground that you don’t get any signal and can’t even pull up your usual camera feeds. You make a mental note to check the programs once you are above ground, just to make sure everything is complete.

“And about the extra upgrades you mentioned…” Horizon drops his gaze in favor of fiddling with his glasses, taking them off his face and cleaning the lens. You honestly don’t know where he would find glasses to fit his face but you also think it would probably be insensitive to ask.

“Ah… you mentioned that there were difficulties implementing some of them,” behind your visor, your expression falls a little. Your mood soars back up almost immediately, however; you’re honestly just happy to have your regular datapad functional again. “I understand. It had been a lot to ask for.”

“I understand you want to take a more active role with your team and patrols, and we talked about potential ways to adapt your current equipment. Do you remember one of the first ideas we discussed?”

Your heart thuds painfully loud and hopeful inside your chest as you nod slowly, “Yes? I thought maybe a remote-controlled drone could help with scouting and air support in a skirmish.”

Horizon reaches back into the storage container and brings out an unfamiliar, boxy object. At this point, you’re already holding your breath. “Out of all the options we’ve explored, this is the simplest one to manage.”

Lena is glancing between you and Horizon, a wide grin on her face, visible through the orange tint of her visor. She nudges you with her elbow, “Can you believe it?!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, L—Tracer,” the little slip-up doesn’t escape your notice, but you tactfully pretend not to notice, “it’s still a bit far from what we had originally planned.”

Horizon sets the object down on his work table and you lean in for a better look. It’s a drone, there’s no doubt about it: dark gray in colour, matte in finish, and boxy in shape. You glance up at Horizon and he nods slightly, encouraging you to pick it up. Gently, you lift the drone.

It’s much lighter than it looks, and you wonder if Horizon repurposed this from a toy bought online—which would be rather practical, now that you think about it. The propeller, thin in appearance, is sturdy and unyielding to the touch. In the middle of its body is a circular aperture that is currently closed.

“I hope this will be enough to help with your scouting and recon needs,” Horizon speaks. “I’ve linked it to your datapad, and you should be able to control it from there. It’s capable of recording audio and visual input and will automatically store the feeds.”

“Thank you, Horizon. This is… _very_ good news,” you clasp the drone to your chest gratefully before setting it gently down on the work table. Say goodbye to the days when you had to stakeout patrol routes just to worm your way into the camera feeds.

“I tried to make it as durable as possible,” Horizon continues. He reaches back up to his face, fiddling with his glasses again, despite having cleaned it just minutes ago, “But it’s not… as feasible as I had hoped. I’m afraid that it won’t be that useful in combat situations.”

You’re a little bit disappointed to hear that, sure, but he’s done more than enough for you at this point. You’re determined to tell him as much, too.

Horizon smiles at your reassurances, “Before you thank me, let’s test out your drone. I want to see if we need to tweak anything before you go.”

He presses a barely noticeable button on the side of the drone, and the little machine blinks to life with a quiet click. A red light near its aperture flashes twice, letting you know that it’s active before it dims into something more inconspicuous. You check your datapad and see that its activation automatically brought up the control program.

“Left side is horizontal controls, and right side is vertical,” Horizon tells you.

You tap experimentally on your datapad, and the drone stutters a little in response—flutters an inch or so off the table before clattering back down. “It’s quite responsive.”

“It will take some getting used to,” Horizon admits. “During testing, I’ve accidentally mangled upwards of a dozen. I’ve turned down the sensitivity since then.”

The drone wobbles a little bit under your control, and you’re still a little too nervous to push it any further than a slight hover. When you glance down at your datapad, you can see the camera feed from the drone centered between the controls; Lena runs around you so that she can stand in front of the drone and wave at you through its camera.

“If you don’t mind, fly it over here. There’s still one demonstration left to make,” Horizon ambles over to the open space in the middle of his lab/living space. You follow after them, guiding the drone to trail behind you. “You may want to, um, face it away from us. And then try pressing the blue button.”

You do as he suggests, spinning the drone around so that its camera faces a blank wall rather than the three of you. It’s at this time that you take a closer look at the other controls on your control panel. Other than your movement controls, there’s four other buttons and each is a different color: red, blue, green, and yellow. Over in the top corner is a little green bar, what you assume to be the battery of the drone.

You tap the blue button just once, and immediately a panel on the underside of your drone flips open to reveal a small barrel. There’s a flash of light that leaves afterimages dancing behind your eyelids, and the next thing you know, Horizon’s wall looks a little singed. Stunned, you look back at your hovering drone—the panel has already closed up.

Horizon smiles at your amazement and offers an explanation, “Laser-tech. Not strong enough to be weapons-grade, if that’s what you’re thinking. It also takes a lot of energy to use, so use it sparingly.”

“This is…” you flounder with your words, gesturing to the drone with one hand. “Horizon… this is—this is beyond words. I’m—astounded. _Thank you_.”

Lena is practically bouncing in her enthusiasm, grinning from ear-to-ear, “And that’s not even all of it! Try out the rest!”

The green button turns out to be the activation command for a brief boost in speed for your drone. Horizon warns you that this, too, chews up a lot of your drone’s energy. A day of sunlight should be enough to recharge it, and if its main battery supply starts to deplete, Horizon is confident that you’ll be able to replace it yourself.

The yellow button sets the drone to autopilot. There’s actually a few different settings; you can set it to follow a target, fly to a specific destination, or to roam and avoid obstacles.

You tap the red button and your drone lets out an answering beep, followed by a whirring noise as the visual feed turns red on your screen. “Horizon?”

“It’s a little alarming, I know, but trust me that it’s supposed to work this way,” Horizon reassures you. “Turn it around and face us.”

You do as he says, carefully bringing the drone to swivel around and focus its camera on the three of you. On your datapad’s screen, you see three bodies outlined in white; when you guide the drone to move, it automatically focuses in on the closest outline.

“Seeker vision,” Horizon says as a way of explanation, “the details of it I won’t get into, but it can help you track someone or something in a chase.”

“This is amazing, Horizon,” you tell him for what must be the tenth time within the hour. “This reminds me a lot of Soldier:76’s visor tech. Or, well, I guess what we know of it.”

Horizon and Lena share a knowing glance before Lena bursts out, “They are similar! Horizon here helped _design_ Soldier’s old visor!”

You feel your eyebrows rise in disbelief, “No way!”

“Uh-huh,” Lena nods.

“That—that’s just--!” your voice gets embarrassingly high, almost cracking. You clear your throat and manage to respond in a marginally calmer tone, “You mean you’ve _worked_ with Soldier:76 before, Horizon?”

“In the very loosest definition of the term ‘worked with’,” Horizon tells you, once again fiddling with his glasses and averting his gaze from yours. “Mostly I just helped design, upgrade, and upkeep his gear.”

Behind your visor, you mouth the words _no way_ to yourself. Lena shoots you a glance, her grin stretching impossibly wider, as if she can see your astonishment. “Reader here is a huge fan of Soldier:76.”

You lightly shove her arm, “Oh shush, you. I just appreciate all the work he did to help the super community get off the ground. It really was just him and Shrike that started it all.”

“I always wondered what happened to ‘em,” Lena adds, thoughtfully.

You nod in agreement. You were too young to remember it personally, but all the research you’ve ever done on the topic seem to suggest that Soldier and Shrike just… disappeared one day. Dropped off the grid completely and never went back. The community reeled for a bit when it lost two of its most prominent figures, but it eventually recovered and—dare you say it—prospered.

“They’re still alive,” Horizon assures you. A hesitant expression crosses his face and he drops his gaze again, “I can’t say much more than that.”

You’re surprised to feel a little twinge of relief when he says that, as if some distant part of you that you hadn’t realized was tense with anxiety had just taken a deep breath and relaxed, “Thank you. It always bothered me a little, just never knowing for certain if they were okay.”

“I figured as much, but it’s nice to hear for certain,” Lena’s tone, you notice, also carries a slight hint of relief. “You know… I figured no news was good news in this case. If something _really_ bad happened to them, we’d probably know about it, right?”

“Right…” Horizon turns back to your drone, gently plucking it out of the air and powering it down for you before handing it over. You accept it from him, cradling it protectively to your chest. “The drone doesn’t carry the same firepower as Soldier’s pulse rifle did, so even with the visor tech, there’s only so much you can do. I’m looking into making it, um, more efficient—”

“Horizon, I can’t say this enough, but… thank you,” you really don’t want to interrupt his rambling, but you caught a glimpse of the time on your datapad; you have to be going home soon, if you want to be back before your father. “You put a lot of time and effort into this, and I… really don’t have anything to offer you in return.”

“Oh, it’s no problem! I enjoyed working on it. And, um, I’m not particularly busy recently or anything…” Horizon shakes his head, “I’ve kept you for long enough. Have a safe trip back and contact me within the week to let me know if you want adjustments.”

Lena and you bid him farewell before taking the elevator back up to the abandoned warehouse that looms above. Lena takes the lead automatically, and you trail after her, caught up with inspecting your drone.

As you turn it over in your hands, you’re also thinking about the various patrol routes that your team takes and which ones have the spottiest surveillance feeds. Maybe you could use the drone to supplement those patrols? Or send the drone itself out on patrols, maybe for a very low-risk route.

Alternatively, you think that this could help your team extend your patrol routes. Sparrow has been mentioning since _forever_ that he thinks there’s suspicious activity going on down by the Philips’ Bar. You’ve always been hesitant to let him patrol that area because you don’t have anything that can assist him—not at the time, at least. Horizon said the drone isn’t built for skirmishes, but maybe as a support unit, you’re—

“Hey,” Lena’s voice cuts through your storm of thoughts. It takes you a moment to realize that she’s stopped walking and you’ve almost walked right by her in your pensive state.

“Is everything okay?” there’s something uncharacteristically somber about her tone and it throws you for a loop.

“I should be asking _you_ that. You were…” she makes a vague hand gesture. “You were thinking really hard back there.”

“I’m excited, really,” you heft the drone in your arms. “Horizon has given us so much with this! Can you imagine what we can do with this at our disposal? I still can’t help much in a skirmish, but now I can always have eyes on you guys. And maybe I can do my own independent patrols now, help us cover a larger area!”

“I’m happy that you’re so excited—really wish I could have seen your face properly when Horizon brought out the drone!—but I also know you. And I _know_ you tend to overthink,” she gives you a pointed look through her orange visor.

“Not my fault there’s a lot of things to look after all the time,” you retort.

“And you’ll get to them in time!” she slings an arm around your shoulders, bringing you into a hug. “Enjoy this for a while, you know? It’s exciting to have a new toy—”

“Lena, this is a highly sophisticated piece of equipment.”

“Shh, it’s still exciting to have, yes?”

You do have to concede to that.

“So enjoy it for a bit! There’s no need to incorporate it and push your limits immediately. Take it out for a joyride. Take some pictures. Have some fun with it!”

“I do have fun. I have a lot of fun—and peace of mind—knowing our neighbourhood is safe.”

“And you do keep it safe! I’m not saying that you’ve gotta ignore all your responsibilities. I’m just saying it’s probably good to kick back your feet and take it slow every now and again,” she must sense your dubious expression because she backtracks a little. “I’m also not saying that you’re rushing too much or you’re too stiff or anything like that!”

“If you’ve got something on your mind, Lena, tell me.”

She deflates a little, “I’m worried about you, okay?”

“Why?”

Her hand moves up to her head, as if to run her fingers through her hair, but it knocks hollowly against the side of her helmet instead. “You do so much for us, and so little for yourself, it feels like. And I’m just worried that you’ll stretch yourself too thin one day, taking on role after role.”

Your knee-jerk reaction is to snap and insist you’re fine, that you’re the one who knows your own limits. But you clamp down on that reaction, swallow it down with your pride, and you reach out to link your arm with Lena. “I know you’re worried, but I will be okay.”

Lena doesn’t look convinced at all. You’re not exactly doing anything to sell your case.

“Okay, I guess I can’t say with certainty that it will all be okay. I don’t have any sort of future sight or clairvoyant abilities. But what I mean is, even if I end up not being 100% okay, I will be able to manage. Because I know I have you and the others to count on,” you nudge your elbow gently against her side. “I know you all care about me, and really, that’s what gets me through a lot of these days.”

She smiles back at you, not as bright as normal, but it’s getting there. “I really do mean it when I say take care of yourself. Or else.”

You make a gesture of surrender, somewhat awkwardly considering that your arms are still linked, “I know, I know.”

The rest of the walk is silent, but comfortable. Even your mind is blissfully quiet. Well, quieter. You’re not quite there yet, but you’re working on it.


End file.
